


Luminous

by devilsduplicity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Slash, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-09
Updated: 2010-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsduplicity/pseuds/devilsduplicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer is best at two things: Manipulation and Deceit. Castiel hasn't been Castiel for a very long time, and with nothing left to hold onto, Dean spirals down into a pit of torture and degradation. When the Devil kicks Castiel out of Jimmy's body, he weaves a world of lies around Dean's life that is so carefully interwoven with reality, no one is the wiser. Dean kills, thrills, and eventually strings himself out on Heaven's equivalent of crack cocaine, and at the end of this long journey of royally screwing himself over, Lucifer, in possession of Castiel's vessel, spirits Dean away for a little "quality time" together. Add in flashbacks of Lucifer's time in Heaven, the slow dissension between two angelic brothers, and The End Of The Apocalypse, and we've got ourselves a mighty fine time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Luminous [Part One]

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to sin_unforgiven for looking over the story for me and cheering me on when my brain finally, inevitably, turned to mush. Check out meivocis 's fanvid -- it's absolutely amazing and I love it to itty bitty pieces!

  
There is something about silver that sickens the senses and slickens the soul. It beats hard like a breath of fresh sulfur, and in the end it is a knife that does the deed. A flash of flesh, a flick of the wrist, and permission is not given, but it is just as easily taken.

He is Lucifer. The rules don't apply.

The suit is warm -- that's what he calls them. Suits. Monkeys. Fur to be worn over a bright, shining interior, and puppets to play with.

The string is pulled taut, and he can feel the resistance quaking within this body. Jimmy is not dead, and Lucifer is bemused at his brother's decision to keep the soul alive. In possession, a vessel is merely catatonic. In death, the soul does not alight or descend; it disappears. Thus is the fate of an angel's host -- thus is the fate of these oh-so-special people.

Lucifer shrugs, and his wings fold behind him, and tear into flesh and bind with sinew, and he hears the human soul scream at this new level of hurt and violation.

He sighs.

If the ethereal ape was going to cry out with every breath and every break, it would be best to silence it permanently.

Jimmy hears the Devil's thoughts and swallows his pain.

Lucifer snuffs him out anyway. His fragile little soul is like a flickering candle; one flap of the angel's wing, and there is nothing left but wax and smoke.

The body is too little for him. There are cavernous expanses within that have melded to his brother's form, and Lucifer thrills at the familiarity. He smiles, and cracks the joints and dislocates the bones of that skeletal expanse that once housed a soul and now houses a _presence_. His wings can barely fit inside, let alone the rest of his fallen glory, but he pushes harder against the body he must treat like glass, and when it is about to break, it _gives_.

His light floods the insides, burns away Castiel's print, and when he sighs again everything shudders and settles.

He has much work to do.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
He begins with Castiel.

Poor, pathetic Castiel, no doubt bemoaning his lack of allegiance towards anyone of any particular merit in the cosmos.

Dean Winchester is an ant. Lucifer is a god.

When Castiel was pushed out of his vessel, he was met with a pull from Heaven, and a pull from Hell, and a pull from common sense screaming at him to remain innocuous.

There are wards in place, and the little angel has never remained this diaphanous for so long.

Castiel is a ghost.

Lucifer remains an entity inside a stolen body, and casts his brother into the bowels of the earth. Castiel must thread his fingers into the dirt and the mortar, and when he rises he must bend time and space to his will, because Lucifer has sent him to the in-between where water and sky are shimmering over a surface of oblivion, and if he were to squint, he would see a star falling far in the distance.

Castiel will remain a ghost, and Lucifer will have his vessel, and Lucifer will have Dean Winchester soon enough, as well.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
"Hey, Cas. Pass me a beer, will ya'?

Castiel hesitates, but in that mighty way of his that is less like hesitation and more like contemplation.

"Is it wise to be drinking before a hunt?"

His forehead scrunches up when Dean leans forward and snatches up the bottle.

"Who's the hunter here?" the human scolds, wagging the beer in front of Castiel's face, then pops off the cap. "Take a load off," Dean commands, propping his feet up on Bobby's little coffee table and pressing his shoulders further into the couch.

Cas gives Dean that look that says 'you're talking nonsense again', and Dean lets out a little huff of breath.

He almost slips up. He almost says, "You're worse than Sam," but he knows how touchy the angel can be about his brother's whole kool-aid kick, so he avoids the subject as much as possible.

"I thought we'd wriggled that stick outta your ass last month," he says instead, then takes a leisurely draw of beer.

Castiel gives him _that look_ again when he chugs the rest of it down and reaches for another.

"Dean."

"Was tha' your first word as a baby, or summin'? 'Dean, Dean, Dean.' S'all you gotta say half the time." The steady slur of words is enough of an indication that Dean has had one too many beers. He huddles into the couch and nurses his bottle and studiously ignores the disapproving look his angelic counterpart is boring into his skin. It makes him itchy and uncomfortable, but not nearly as itchy and uncomfortable as he would be were he to acknowledge it in the first place.

He'd already forgotten what 'it' was.

Yep. He was wasted.

Dean Winchester did not giggle, but when he was drunk, he sort of chuckled like a girl. A very manly girl, whose name was Dean fucking Winchester.

And so he gives a raucous round of man-girl chuckles at the thought of baby Cas, with little tiny cherub wings and clad in nothing but a diaper.

And a trench coat.

A diaper and a trench coat.

Dean dies a little on the inside, but that's okay, because the downward pull of Castiel's lips syncs up perfectly with the petulant pout worn by the baby Cas in Dean's mind. The features blend together seamlessly, and it only makes everything _that much funnier_.

Castiel doesn't seem to be amused, but he's obviously _gay_ , so it doesn't matter.

"You aren't fit to work like this," Castiel surmises without any kind of prompting.

"S'just a simple salt 'n burn," Dean protests, then waves him off in that 'only-a-hunter-would-understand' manner. Because, really, only a trained professional could destroy a cold-hearted, blood-thirsty ghost while simultaneously nursing a half-buzzed hangover. Alone.

Dean is a trained professional.

"I got this," he assures.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
He doesn't have this.

Dean has never been in this much shit in his entire life, and he has been in _a lot of deep shit_.

Point one: Ghosts weren't supposed to be so agile they were impossible to fucking see.

Point two: Dean was so smashed, he couldn't even see two feet in front of him, let alone the ghost that was _impossible to fucking see_.

Point three: He wasn't fighting a ghost.

The minute he drops his gun into an open grave, he realizes, _oh yeah_ , he is royally screwed.

"Not so tough without that big gun of yours to fondle and caress, hm?" taunts the demon -- _demon_. It rings twice in Dean's head, and he can smell the sulfur, but it is the emotionless black of careless eyes that tips him off and over the edge.

Knife. Knife. He still has the knife.

The demon kicks him while he's down, right in the ribs, right in the side, and he definitely hears something crack, and he _definitely_ knows this isn't good.

 _Knife knife knife_.

"Aw, come on. Don't you want to play anymore?"

Grasping fingers grip Dean's hair and dig into his scalp, propelling him forward the same moment a booted foot digs into his spine. His body arches in an unnatural manner, and Dean thinks, _Holy fucking shit, Cas was right_.

"Go to hell," he spits out, and the pressure on his back increases.

"Been there, done that," the demon says flippantly through gritted teeth, and it makes his words sound tight and cruel. Dean winces at the tone, suddenly reminded of Alistair, and when the older demon was displeased. Those were memories he would have rather done without.

The grip on his hair tightens and pulls upward, and Dean scrambles for some kind of purchase on the ground.

 _Where is that fucking knife!?_

Dean usually shouts his demands to the open sky because, hell, it's been pretty effective so far. But when his silent shout of frustration is met with the slick thud of metal sinking into flesh, and a resounding pop and heated fizzle prelude the horrendous scream of a demon being pulled back down into Hell, Dean wonders if he's not been wasting his breath.

Or maybe it's just Castiel who's the mind reader.

"Boy, am I glad to see you," Dean coughs out, then struggles to his feet without a word. He ignores the look Cas gives him, and dusts himself off.

"I told you not to come alone," Castiel says, and Dean can't tell if it's concern or malice in his tone, and the inability to differentiate between the two is really starting to screw with his head.

"Uh. Sorry?" he offers halfheartedly, then scratches the back of his neck. Guilty, maybe, but damned well proud of his earlier binge.

Alcohol won't leave him like Sammy did.

Castiel doesn't say anything, and so they drop the matter. Dean is preoccupied with his aching side and more than likely broken ribs. Cas is staring at the bloody knife in his hand, watching the trail of crimson drip off the blade, and Dean thinks that might be a little weird, but the angel looks more disgusted than intrigued, so he lets it pass. So long as Castiel isn't feasting on demon _a la carte_ , he doesn't really care.

"Don't get me wrong," Dean says while gripping his aching side. "You've got some pretty wicked timing. But couldn't you have swayzeed my ass outta there about two minutes earlier?"

Dean's ribs give a creak of protest when he moves too abruptly, and Castiel tilts his head at the insistently pained noise he makes.

"You need medical attention."

"No shit, Sherlock," he growls in reply, then gives up on the whole walking thing.

Castiel teleports him without asking his permission, and Dean might hate him a little bit for that, even if it was for his own good.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
Bobby is entirely too unimpressed.

"What'd you do, get in a fight with a bulldozer?"

"Demon," Dean winces.

"Were you sitting there with your thumb up your ass?" Bobby has to ask, because there is no way in hell one single demon could give Dean such a run for his money.

Dean knows he can't lie to Bobby, but he still physically cringes when Castiel answers for him.

"He was intoxicated."

"You were _what?_ "

"It was only a couple of beers!" Dean protests, and Castiel doesn't have to say a word for Bobby to know that he's definitely stretching the truth with that one.

"Boy, if I had a mind, I'd whoop you right here, right now. You'd best be thankful that demon got to you first, else you'd be in a world of hurt."

Dean aches from every bone. He curls and coils, and his joints throb and his veins burn, and _holy shit_ , he is so very thankful that that demon got to him first.

There is a pause in the air, a silence with a modicum of pressure, and when the crushing weight becomes too much, it is broken with a rough sigh.

"No more alcohol."

Dean blanches.

" _What?_ "

Bobby pats him on the knee as he rolls his wheelchair by and pointedly ignores the way Dean cringes at the touch.

"So long as you're shacked up here, coke and water's all you're gettin'. I'm cutting you off cold turkey."

"That's not fair!" It sounds petulant, but it's all the pain meds allow him to say about the matter.

"This ain't no democracy," Bobby counters. "My house, my rules."

Castiel looks at Dean with a blankness to his features when Bobby rolls out of the room.

"What're you lookin' at, you smug bastard?"

It looks like Cas wants to say something to that, but he tilts his head instead, and when Dean blinks, he is gone.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
 _Lucifer loved Heaven. It was a gracious land marked by beauty and belonging. The morning chorus was bright and fluttering, and each of his brothers' and sisters' unique melodies mingled like silver butterfly wings that flit throughout the air. In those early years, their Father's presence stretched wide and welcome, and just the simple act of thinking about Him brought an onslaught of emotion so overwhelming, there was no doubt that He had heard you._

In the beginning, the angels were always thinking about God. He was all they needed -- all Lucifer needed -- and eternity continued on in peace.

Lucifer loved Heaven. The days were long, and the nights were non-existent, and fear had yet to be created. He was surrounded by his brethren, by those that adored him and whom he adored in return, and his mild mannerisms made him a favored member of the Heavenly Host.

His brother was more raucous and abrasive than he; a timer tick-tocking its way to an end no one could really perceive. Even in a perfect world like Heaven, they still bickered and clashed like two forces of nature. The clouds would retreat, and the sky would tremble, and the foundations of Heaven itself would shake in the wake of their magnificence. The angelic armies would watch in fascination as light and will crumbled around them.

Lucifer was unreasonably fond of his big brother.

After they tussled, they would set everything back in its proper place, mending light and tending to the rips and tears in the celestial fabric of their existence, and after that they would laugh, and smile, and beam brighter than before.

Lucifer loved Heaven, and Lucifer missed Heaven, and so Lucifer would see Heaven again.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
Dean is bored.

He's hurting and he's healing, but he is _so fucking bored he can hardly stand it_.

Castiel left over a week ago, as silent as the grave, and Dean has been watching old _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ reruns ever since. He isn't sure how much more he can take of this, but he troops on regardless, willing his body to heal faster because Bobby is adamant about the whole 'no drinking' thing, and Dean needs alcohol, _stat_.

It's harder to forget the fight he and Sam had when he's sober. He can practically hear the sound of glass shattering against stone, of wood splintering and impacting flesh. Sam had drank the kool-aid -- _again_ \-- and Bobby and Dean had had to detox him -- _again_ \-- and just when they thought he was okay, he went and freaked the hell out -- _**again**_.

Dean was tired. He was sick of the arguments, sick of the bickering, and desperately sick of having to beat common sense back into his brother's demon-blood-addled mind. So he had done the worst thing he could have possibly ever done.

He let Sam go.

They had fought with fists and furious words, and in the end, instead of gripping him tight and beating common sense into his head one more time, Dean had let Sam go.

Dean has been regretting his decision for a month now.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
When Castiel returns a few days later, Dean is torn between relief and near-crippling agitation. He, of course, acts on the latter.

"Where the hell did you run off to this time?" he bites out while sipping on a glass bottle of coke. He's mostly healed by now, save for a few sore spots here and there, and he figures he'll be up and hunting (and drinking) in a few more days.

Castiel stares out the window for a long while, and when he turns his gaze onto Dean, something flashes in his eyes that reminds the hunter of _I can throw you back in_ , and the shift in demeanor is frightening.

"I was with Sam," he says carefully, and Dean's heart leaps into his throat. He fumbles for something to say, but all he can think of right now is, _You slimy bastard_ and, _Is he alright?_ and, _Sam_.

He licks his lower lip and takes a step forward and cocks his head to the side and says, "oh".

Castiel nods once, as if he can hear everything unspoken.

"He is straying from the path."

Damned angels and their damned cryptic messages. Dean would have rather Cas just come out and say it. _Your brother's vamping out on demon blood again, but that's not really a big surprise._ It's in his tone, and it's in his eyes, and Dean could have really done without the angel's sympathy right then; he really, really could have.

"Surprise, surprise," Dean says coldly, then winces at the sound of his own rough voice. It scares him how easy it is to hate Sam.

Castiel doesn't say anything in reply to that comment, but his unwavering stare grates on every one of Dean's nerves. Cas' glare looks far too accusatory for his tastes.

Still, Dean is curious, and no matter how many times he might have to tell himself otherwise, he is truly deathly afraid for his little brother.

"How's he doing? he asks, and something like remorse makes his mouth taste bitter.

If Castiel is surprised by the question, he doesn't let it show for long.

"Not well."

Big protective brother mode kicks in so abruptly and so immediately that Dean is nearly thrown off balance.

"Take me to him," he says, grabbing the jacket he had slung over Bobby's couch. He's already halfway to the door before Cas can respond.

"Dean," Cas says sternly. "You are still injured."

"It's all superficial now," Dean replies, taking a few more steps towards the door. A firm hand on his shoulder stops him dead in his tracks.

"Dean," Cas says again, and this time his voice is soft.

He seems to hesitate, and that does not bode well for Dean, so he crosses his arms and faces the angel and says, "Out with it."

Castiel deliberates, but finally casts his gaze to the floor.

"He attacked me."

Dean grows cold and his features darken in a manner not unlike the very first time he had found out that his little brother was drinking demon blood.

"He attacked you," Dean echoes hollowly, and when Cas cants his head to the side, he asks, "I don't suppose you deserved it?" because, honestly, angel dickery was plenty enough grounds to punch a warrior of God in the face. It was in the rule book.

Well, _Dean's_ rule book, anyway.

The angel is like a puppy, Dean imagines, insomuch as that when you kick him, he just gives you these wide, wet, utterly incomprehensible eyes that sort of make you regret sticking your foot up his ass.

"I did nothing to harm him. I merely approached him and asked after his well-being."

Dean isn't particularly proud of the tick of protectiveness that prompts him to seek out Sam and tear him a new one for hurting Cas' feelings like this, but he shakes off the weariness and just goes with it.

Cas may leave him all the time, but at least he comes back.

Dean tries his hand at consolation by wrapping his arm around Castiel's shoulders and dragging him further into Bobby's abode.

"I think you need a drink," he says while releasing the angel to pull a couple of glasses out of Bobby's cupboard. He grabs the bourbon sitting on the counter and pours it, warm, into both cups.

"It'll take your mind off of him," he says while turning around... and nearly jumps out of his skin and drops the drinks because Castiel is suddenly _right there_.

" _Jesus_ , Cas! We've already had this talk." Dean's spine is digging into the counter, and he's starting to feel very uncomfortable because Cas _won't stop staring_.

"Is that why you drink?" Castiel asks, ignoring the proffered alcohol and swallowing up Dean's nervousness instead.

Dean breathes deeply, and he thinks about cracking a joke, but Castiel is way too fucking close for him to even be able to think right.

The word 'rape' pops into his head, and Dean nearly splutters out his own agitation because, okay, angel-rape? Did that _seriously_ just cross his mind? He wasn't sure whether to punch Cas in the face for being so fucking close and making him think such seriously misguided things in the first place, or to punch _himself_ in the face for thinking about Cas and sex, and angels and rape, and _Cas_ and rape.

He lifts the bourbon to his lips and is about to take a long overdue draw when a lithe hand shoots out and snatches the cup from between his fingers.

Dean is far too flabbergasted to protest when Castiel reaches around him and pours the drink into the sink, mirroring the action with his own glass.

"Dean," he says, taking a step back and letting the hunter learn how to breathe once again. "There is another way."

It takes Dean a few moments to process what Cas has just said because he is too busy trying to stifle the unexplained sense of foreboding that washes over him.

"What?"

The angel hesitates, and Dean is suddenly sick with worry. He wrenches it from his body and sticks it in his back pocket because this is _Castiel_ \-- Cas, the one who faced-off with the entire celestial hierarchy and told them to shove it where the sun don't shine; Cas, the one who has hauled his ass out of trouble more times than he can count; Cas, the angel that _fell_ for him.

If he couldn't trust Cas, he needed to go jump off of a bridge, _asap_.

"Hey, don't pull that cryptic shit on me now."

Where before Castiel might have berated his impatience, he now just _stares_.

Dean swallows thickly, and the angel averts his gaze and sighs before turning the full weight of his undivided attention onto the human.

"I can give you something that will help."

Dean blinks.

"Well who would've thought. Castiel, M.D."

Cas is very somber, though, and his eyes keep flitting back and forth as if he's afraid Daddy-dearest is going to strike him down for even mentioning whatever-the-hell he was even mentioning.

"So, what?" Dean continues. "Manna laced with crack is gonna fall from the sky, or something? You gonna hook me up with a new angel drug called divinity?"

"Euphoria."

"Excuse me?"

"It's called euphoria."

Dean blinks, mouth agape, while Cas seemingly fidgets.

"And it isn't manna," the divine being continues. "It's water."

Dean _cannot stop staring_.

"Blessed water."

"Like holy water?" Dean finally chokes out once he is certain Cas hasn't suddenly grown a twisted sense of humor.

Castiel nods. "A prayer is spoken in the angelic tongue."

The fact that Castiel is talking about giving Dean the heavenly equivalent of cocaine simply can't leave Dean's mind.

"Oh," he says. "That's..." _fucked up in every manner possible? Twisted in every sense of the word?_ "... cool."

Cas nods like he's agreeing that drugs are quite the 'cool' thing (he isn't really, but he has the naivety of a second-grader) and takes a step closer to Dean, invading his personal space again.

"It will shroud your pernicious memories while allowing you to work at optimal capacity."

"So... happiness without the hangover?"

It takes a few moments of deliberation before Castiel nods in a slow and precise manner.

Dean crosses his arms slowly and leans against the counter of Bobby's kitchen.

"Sounds too good to be true."

Castiel's brows scrunch up in that subtle manner of his.

"It is heavenly."

"Yeah, well. What good has Heaven done us lately?"

"Dean," and Cas tips his head to the side. "It is your choice."

The air grows thick with silence before a decision is made.

"Lay it on me."  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
 _They called it euphoria; nectar of the angels. It was used to quench them, to sustain them, and to soothe their tired voices._

Lucifer had come up with it one day when he had been conducting his choir and one of his brethren had been inflicted with a tired voice. Angels did not need sustenance to survive, but they were capable of having dry throats, which often led to a rough and gravelly tone. Or, in this case, a cracked one.

The Morningstar, as he was sometimes called, had sought out God for His take on a solution. (God had been more easily accessible in the early years, and Lucifer was favored among his kind.)

"Father," Lucifer had said, kneeling before the throne of his Creator, head bowed, as his already luminous presence was overwhelmed by the light of the Almighty. "Our voices want for nothing but to praise You, but I and my brothers and sisters sometimes grow weary. If we could have something that could satisfy our parched throats...?"

Lucifer didn't look up, but he could feel _God smiling down at him._

"It took you long enough," said his Father, and the angel smiled because it was really very hard to surprise the all-knowing with a question.

Of course He would know. His Lord knew everything, and the thought made Lucifer's heart flutter in his chest.

Now this _was a Being worthy to be praised. Lucifer started to hum a joyous melody beneath his breath -- he couldn't help it. He was so full of happiness that it burst forth from his very being, washed over him like a tidal wave, and he knew this was a direct result of being in God's presence._

"It is done," his Father said, and Lucifer rose to his feet.

The light of that day was grand and seemed brighter than the day before, and it was with this that Lucifer knew God was pleased.

He would compose a song for his Father, and the choirs would sing it in joyous triumph, because this melody would be a work of art, a masterpiece, something God would never tire of.

He left the throne room in good faith; countenance bright and intentions pure.

It wouldn't be until much later that everything started to sour.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
It has been two months since Dean has spoken to Sam, and the best part (which, subsequently, also happens to be the worst part) is that he doesn't even fucking care.

He would say he could live off of this euphoria stuff, but he had already beat himself to the punch there. The clear, seemingly innocuous liquid packs a kick stronger than vodka, but the taste is something between sweet and sour, and has the tendency to be sinfully addicting.

Bobby disapproves, but Dean isn't high, he's just happy, so he really can't do anything to prevent these events from unfurling like the coils of a secret little snake. He glares at Cas every time the angel is around, though, but Cas only has eyes for Dean.

He watches him, cuts him off when needed, and ups the dosage when Dean's dreams start to devolve into gut-wrenching nightmares as a result of all the repressed emotions.

Castiel has been steadily increasing the amount of euphoria Dean is to take each day. The nightmares have only gotten worse. Dean, of course, doesn't remember them. When he wakes up he is bleary eyed and incoherent, and a fog seems to cover his entire countenance. He asks for his daily dosage of heavenly cocaine every morning, jolts awake when Castiel is kind enough to bless the stale water sitting in a paper cup by his bedside, and then whips himself up out of bed and asks if pie counts as a suitable breakfast food.

He is bright-eyed, but he is far from lucid.

Bobby is worried, but Castiel will not listen to his protests and Dean is far too happy to be upset.

"He's getting dependent on this drug 'a yours," says Bobby one day when he and Castiel are alone in the kitchen and Dean is in the next room watching a football game on the television.

"It is helping him," replies the angel in a steady tone, as if he's had to explain this several times before.

Bobby levels with him, rolls his wheelchair closer and seems to tower above the only other man in the room, even though it is glaringly apparent that he is several feet shorter while sitting down.

"If this becomes his new drink," he says, "all it's gonna do it hurt him."

Bobby will not see Dean hurt again.

Castiel's curiosity is peaked by this blatant display of familial protection, so he tilts his head to the side and listens.

"If you harm my boy," Bobby goes on to say, his voice lowering to a heated whisper, "you'll need something stronger than spiked angel-water to get you back on your own two feet."

Dean comes in at about that time, smiling, oblivious to their conversation, and claps a hand on Castiel's back.

"Just flipped to the news. There's been some omens down in southern Louisiana." He turns fully to Cas and gives him a big grin. "So what d'you say? Wanna send some demon bitches back down to Hell?"

Something sparks in Castiel's eyes that Dean would call passion.

Bobby would call it wrath.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
 _This is good,_ he thinks, and he loves the feel of a knife slipping through demonic flesh, even though demonic flesh bleeds a lot like human flesh. But he doesn't think about that part. He couldn't if he wanted to. Thanks to Cas' lovely little drug, Dean is oblivious to pain -- even the mental kind.

It's better that way, he figures, and lets all inhibitions slide when he stabs a black-eyed little girl in the heart.

Monster. Beast. This is divine retribution and he knows it.

The demon screams through the voice of the orphan, and pretty soon an overbearing blackness seeps out between the child's teeth and it is the orphan herself who screams at the pain of bleeding from the heart.

She falls and writhes and grows silent as death takes her.

Dean is clear-headed enough to realize that there is something genuinely wrong with massacring a group of young female grade schoolers from an orphanage -- demon possession or no -- but he isn't even capable of thinking, _If Sam were here, he could just yank these sons of bitches right out_ , so he is left with an emptiness inside of him that grows with each shrill cry.

He sinks biting metal into another child's stomach and twists the blade, rending demon from human and sending both into the afterlife.

He would regret his actions if he had the time, but he doesn't, so he simply moves on to the next demon.

He slips and slides, and there is so much blood on the floor that he wonders, briefly, if the girls were planning on finger painting with it; and then he remembers, oh, wait, they can't, because he's currently mangling their fragile little bodies with a demon blade, and at that point he sort of shuts down and starts killing again.

If he thinks too hard, he thinks about Sammy, so it's best to just not think at all.

Dean has gotten so used to Castiel's gaze on him that the absence of it makes him itch. The second the angel looks away to deal with his own problems, it is immediately noticeable to Dean. He pauses, distracted, and is nearly bowled over by an inhumanly strong child. Tangled blond locks fall across his eyes as young, blunt teeth latch onto his neck and try to cause as much damage as possible. Little white pincers tear into his skin and _tug, tug, tug_ and _pull, pull, pull_ and with the kind of cold clarity borne of reflex, Dean lodges his weapon into the side of the girl's neck and tears a line from one ear to the next. Blood gushes out and drips onto his face, and with a silent huff he shoves the body off of him, watching as it rolls to the side and drowns in a pool of _red, red, red_.

He rubs his neck where the skin had been ground between chewing teeth and winces.

That was gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning.

Dean spares a glance at Castiel, then lifts himself up off the floor and heads for the nursery -- god, the fucking _nursery_.

Wraith-like wails pierce the night air, two-toned and bleak, unforgiving like the whiz of steel, and a dozen black eyes stare at him from between the wooden bars of rickety cradles.

Dean is going to slaughter a room full of babies, and all he can think is, _This sucks. This fucking sucks_.

He grips the knife tight and sets about his gruesome task and doesn't bother to look back because regret is a hard pill to swallow.

Castiel joins him eventually, and Dean is fixated on his companion because he needs something to distract him from the morbid task at hand.

As the last child squirms and hisses and spittles in the angel's grip, Castiel tilts his head towards Dean and settles unnervingly calm blue eyes on the human. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a gesture of reassurance.

It's okay.

They are surrounded by the bleeding bodies of dead infants, and Dean is trembling like a pathetic little leaf because Castiel has just dropped the empty shell of a human child to the floor with no respect for the unjustly deceased, and _it will be okay_.

It isn't really a lie if Castiel never spoke the words out loud.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
Dean doesn't know what to think when Castiel tells him they must leave. The conversation is short and mostly one-sided.

"Bobby knows."

About the children Dean had slaughtered, of course. The guilt has been eating away at him for days, crippling him, making it harder to focus. He can barely eat, and God help him when he actually manages to fall asleep.

"You have done the right thing," Castiel assures him, and takes a step forward when Dean crumples into one of the creaky motel room chairs.

"He kicked us out?" Dean says in a whisper, then flinches when Castiel settles a hand on his shoulder.

"No." And the pause that follows is laden with a cruelty too subtle for Dean to notice. "He is hunting us." The angel squeezes his shoulder and Dean winces as bony fingers dig into his flesh. "He is hunting _you_."

The words ring in delicate human ears, and Dean _can't make them stop_.

He is hunting you, he is hunting you. Bobby is hunting you. Sam is gone and he's never coming back and _Bobby is hunting you_.

Dean feels like throwing up, but he smiles instead.

"Well, what're you waiting for? Work some of that angel mojo and let's take a vacation to the Bahamas."  
   
   
   



	2. Luminous [Part Two]

  
   
 _The Outer Realms were coated in a fire so hot, they were cool to the touch. The flames curled upward and lapped at wisps of wings, but the embrace was not aching or deadly. Here, the oceans were made of crystal light, undulating back and forth, clinking together to form sounds and syllables of praise. All of creation sang glory to God on high; it was only natural._

A back was bent, curved and outlined in gold, and when it straightened, two glorious wings unfurled from the crystalline seas and slung drops of liquid light into the open sky.

"Brother!" someone called from the distance, and Lucifer arched his neck to look behind him without fully turning around. His eyes sought out the shining presence of his brother's form, followed the trail of luminescence that sifted through the air when two magnificent appendages thrust outward and carried his sibling through the sky. His gaze broke off and he once again turned his attention to the sea of light he was standing waist-deep in.

Lucifer worked his lips, formed silent sounds with his mouth and let soft melodies sit on his tongue. He was writing a new hymn, and he was teaching the ocean a stanza of his work.

God has smiled on this day

Bright and fulfilling like golden silk.

He loves me, he loves me.

  
 __

The words were whispered in Enochian, strong and soft, and just as the seas were rising to a crescendo, a violent crash and a disarrayed splash of light brought discordance to the song and heralded his brother's descent.

"Michael," Lucifer said dryly, absently shaking loose the droplets of crystal from his wings.

"Well don't jump for joy there, Luc. You might hurt yourself."

Michael's voice was loud and brash and deep; a blatant contrast to Lucifer's smooth, even tones. The brothers, despite their differences, were practically bonded by blood. Though every angelic being was crafted by God's hand and every angel, therefore, was bound in an intrinsic tie that reached beyond race, Michael and Lucifer were somewhat... different.

Michael, it was told, was destined for something great; for something truly miraculous in the grand scheme of things. He had a will like thunder and a determination as set and unwavering as the golden slabs that paved Heaven's streets. He certainly wasn't the most violent angel created, but he was strong, and hearty, and full of unfaltering vibrance.

Lucifer, as was obvious by all others, was clearly favored by God. Their Father, in all His just, magnanimous glory, had, for some untold reason, crafted Lucifer with exorbitant care. Every line, every delicate curve, each glistening feather was hand-crafted, glory-touched; the breath of God filled his lungs, sang through his bones and muscles. Just like all of creation was an instrument of praise, Lucifer's every form and fashion was but a vessel for music and a conduit of love. He was the most God-like of the angels; he was the first of his kind -- well-loved, but peculiar.

His bond with Michael, though seemingly reluctant, was unshakable.

"You've ruined my oratorio," Lucifer said without much heat, staring down at the scattered melody that sank to the bottom of the ocean. Already the seas were realigning themselves, shifting to the beat of a new song and forgetting every line the angel had tried to persuade it into singing.

"Ah, well. At least it wasn't a sonata."

"No. You ruined that last time with that unnecessarily brash trumpet blast of yours."

"It needed something to spice it up!"

"It was an affettuoso arietta _. Tenderly,_ con amore _. With love!"_

"It was boring."

"You're insufferable," Lucifer sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.

"That's why you love me," Michael countered, stepping up beside his brother and draping his wing across the other's back. The gesture was familiar and comfortable, and Lucifer couldn't help but lean into the touch.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" Lucifer asked rakishly, bending one of his wings to slide beneath his brother's feathers and settle around the eldest's waist.

Michael jolted at the contact -- he wasn't as obviously physical as his brother seemed to be -- but calmed when his sibling's even tone smoothed out his ruffled feathers. Angels, as a rule, did not need physical contact to comfort them. The gestures seemed kind, yes, but were ultimately hollow. Michael himself never bothered to run the edge of a wing across the outline of another angel. Lucifer, however, had always been the exception. The Lightbringer craved touch, sometimes seemed bound by the want for it, and since God Himself was the only one who bothered to give it to him -- a hand to a cheek, or a palm settled in thick blond hair -- Michael felt almost obligated to reciprocate in kind.

His wing veritably engulfed the younger (by mere seconds) angel, but did nothing to contain the constant thrum of light that perpetually inundated Lucifer's presence.

They did not call him the Lightbringer for nothing.

Each flourishing gap between Michael's feathers was penetrated by something bright, and shining, and so pure it was practically liquid. Light filtered through his wing as though through a sieve.

Lucifer was peering up at him, and it took the warrior angel a moment to remember what his brother had asked. When the memory settled, a stark embarrassment set in as well.

Michael cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, and nearly retracted his wing but figured that would be far more obvious than the already obvious signs of nervousness he was thus far exhibiting.

"Well, you see," he began, then lifted his arm to scratch the back of his head. "You're a choir director, right?"

Lucifer blinked and didn't deign to respond to a question his brother already knew the answer to.

The silence was awkward, but only on Michael's end, and Michael was a trooper, so he could tough it out.

"Affecting Duma's verbose nature, I see," the warrior angel commented wryly, lowering his hand and letting it hang limply by his side.

"I am hardly as tight-lipped as the Angel of Silence," Lucifer reputed softly, but the edge of his mouth curled upward in what could easily be recognized as a smile. Still, he gave his brother no easy way out, and waited for the main point of this conversation to come around with long-suffering patience.

It didn't take long for Michael to catch the hint, but still he seemed almost reluctant to let the words slip from his mouth.

"I, uh."

"Yes?" Lucifer prompted.

"I need singing lessons."

The declaration was unexpected, and left the younger angel blinking in confusion.

To each his own, as was often said in the heavenly realms, and the words were usually taken to heart. Some angels preferred to sing, others were taken by the ways of archery; more spent their hours in flight, and more yet practiced the fluid dance of the swordsman.

Michael was a warrior. Not a messenger, not a peace bringer, not a gardener, and most certainly not a meek little choir boy.

"Why?"

Not that he would refuse his brother, but Lucifer was quite curious as to this shift in demeanor. Michael had never shown any interest in the aural arts before.

"Well, you see..." he began, and then paused, staring down at his feet.

Lucifer sighed.

"One day, I will stop prompting you to continue with your incessant stories."

Michael grinned.

"Heaven will fall before then."

They both laughed at that, then brushed the comment aside. Silly speculations such as those were not to be bothered with.

Michael retracted his wing and Lucifer took a step back, wading through the melodic ocean back towards the shoreline. The other angel followed, and soon both were standing on a beach of flecked golden dust looking out at the painting God was crafting from Heaven's sky.

Lucifer was awed by the beauty. Michael... well. Michael was used to it.

"Your voice is fine enough as is," Lucifer said swiftly, still staring distractedly at the sky.

"I want to sing a song to our Father," Michael blurted out abruptly, turning near-pleading eyes onto the Morningstar.

Another shock for the day.

Lucifer furrowed his brows and tilted his head in silent question.

"He told me He's working on a new project, and I want to sing Him a song when He's done."

It took a shocking several moments for the younger angel to register the fact that their Father had told Michael something without even bothering to mention it to him. Something tugged at his chest, and he reached up to scratch at it, baffled by this odd, unpleasant sensation.

"A project?" he questioned softly, then shook his head and turned a smiling face towards Michael. "And you want me to teach you a song to sing to Him?"

"He's always liked your songs."

The praise made warmth curl over the previously unpleasant sensation, masking it, muting it for another time.

"Mm."

Lucifer turned his eyes back towards the sea.

"Anything for you, brother," he said, and he meant it. "Anything for you."  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
Sam is losing it.

He's been out of control for a while now, but for the most part he's ignored the signs. Speeding? Not a problem. Picking up the occasional diner whore? A little racy but nothing Dean himself wouldn't do. Flipping out at some kids in a carnival and chasing them through a house of mirrors? That's where he had to draw the line.

Okay, okay. So he'd thought they were demons, and that wasn't really any fault of his because they'd sure as hell acted like little hellions, but scaring small children isn't exactly what he would call 'professional'. Plus, the cops had gotten involved, and that had given cause for a quick ride out of town.

He's been on the road for two days now without sleep or food or rest, and he is _really fucking losing it_.

Just over two months ago, he'd had a pretty pointless fight with Dean -- again -- and some stupid misconception had come between them -- he's over his addiction, he _swears!_ \-- so ever since then he's been toughing it out on his own.

Until about two months ago, when a certain body-snatching fallen angel had come knocking on his door and had left him completely and utterly stupefied.

It isn't every day that you're visited by your friendly neighborhood Satan.

It isn't every day that your friendly neighborhood Satan is smiling at you behind the face of your brother's best angel buddy.

Sam's first instinct had been to slam the door shut in the Devil's face, and upon turning around to find that Lucifer had teleported his ass into the motel room anyway, the cheeky little bastard had asked him how he fared. How he _fared_ , as if they were good buddies, and Sam wasn't his vessel, and he wasn't positively aching to get his greedy hands all over Sam's -- his -- _Sam's_ body.

Lucifer had asked his question, and Sam had frozen in place, and then something had snapped and he hadn't been right ever since.

The moment Castiel had showed up at his doorstep, before Sam had even opened the door, he had been able to sense that something was not quite right. He was linked with Lucifer, and so the unwarranted _ache_ that accompanied the angel's presence had been completely unfounded and utterly confounding. He had wanted to slip into Cas' skin, to bask in the acceptance there, and it had taken him a matter of mere seconds for it to click in his mind that, _no_ , Castiel wasn't his angel. _Lucifer_ was.

A thought slipped into his mind by Satan himself, no doubt, and even now it makes Sam shudder. Sam has been content to keep his company with demons -- has been preoccupied with using his acquired abilities to send the little buggers back down where they belonged. So far, they've been the safer lot. Yes, the cruel creatures of Hell may have it out for him, but at least they don't _want his body_ , and, really, nothing was ever quite as creepy as hearing that particular string of words ring over and over inside your own head.

He had launched himself at Lucifer, all wicked fists and flailing limbs, and in the wake of this mad fury came an addling realization, a terrifying conundrum that prompted Sam to realize that he really didn't stand a chance in a fist fight against the embodiment of evil.

Not when Lucifer fought with soft words and gentle detainment.

Sam had landed a good left hook on the other's jawbone, but the only thing that had accomplished was to snap Castiel's -- _Lucifer's_ \-- head to the side and bring a contortion of muddled regret and frustration to the angel's features.

"Sam," he had said in that condescending tone of his. "I'm not here to fight you."

Of course he wasn't.

Of _course_ he wasn't, goddammit!

"Then why?"

Sam had been out of breath, had barely been able to get the words out.

Lucifer had taken a step forward, had clasped his fingers together behind his back, and had tilted his head in a manner eerily reminiscent of Castiel.

"I'm here to detain you."

That had been two months ago.

And now Sam is terrified because he has a gap of lucidity in his memory that is two months long, and he has _no idea_ what could have happened to him during that time.

The possibilities aren't just endless; they're _horrifying_.

He had woken up in the middle of what he now knew to be Wisconsin -- _damn you, Wisconsin!_ \-- and had hijacked a rusted yellow Volkswagen out of sheer desperation.

His first phone call had been to Dean.

Bobby had answered.

"Bobby? Bobby! It's Sam! Where's Dean?"

There had been some grumbling on the other line and a mumbled 'idjit' before the older hunter had answered, "He must've left it. He's on a hunt with that angel friend of yours."

At that point, Sam had freaked the hell out.

After several attempts to get him to calm down, Sam had finally found the breath to speak.

"Listen to me, Bobby. That isn't Cas. It just _looks_ like him. Lucifer took over his body -- _that isn't Cas!_ "

Silence had greeted him, and then the cursing had begun.

"You'd best get over here quick."

That had been two days ago.

Sam has skirmished with Bobby since then, has driven down to the site of his brother's latest hunt, and has followed every path and every trail that would lead him to Dean until those paths and those trails had suddenly... disappeared.

God help them now, Sam thinks, gripping the steering wheel tight. The only thing that can track an angel is another angel.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
 _This isn't the Bahamas_.

It's the first thing that Dean thinks upon arriving in the barren wasteland that Cas has transported them to. He turns to his angelic companion questioningly, brow raised, and can only stare silently when Castiel's entire countenance suddenly grows cold.

"Where are we?" Dean asks, licking his suddenly dry lips.

"That is not of import."

If angels had one constant, it was their insufferability.

"... Riiight." He draws the word out to stave off the awkward silence that is bound to set in.

He is wrong on that aspect, though, because there is no time for an awkward silence before Castiel steps forward and grabs Dean's arm.

"Woah, hey man! We've had this--"

"I'm sorry," Castiel interrupts before Dean can even get the words out, and before he can question why Cas is apologizing, the angel draws his right hand back, curls his fingers into a fist, and belts Dean in the side.

Jimmy had once said that being possessed by an angel was sort of like being tethered to a comet. Well, being _punched in the side_ by an angel was sort of like being _hit_ by a comet; only about ten time worse, give or take an acute, alarming inability to breathe.

One rib cracks, another breaks, and Dean can't even fall to the ground in agony because Castiel is now forcibly holding him up.

"What the hell, man!?" Dean splutters once he has sucked air into his lungs, and when he coughs, he coughs up blood.

"This is the only way," Castiel says, his eyes devoid of emotion. "I have no choice."

Dean is hit again, this time a blow to the stomach, and when all air leaves him, he succumbs to blissful quiet; mute and unheard, save for the silent gasps of desperation. Castiel is unaffected, cold, almost righteous in his single-minded determination. Dean would pay for whatever injustice he had unwittingly infracted, and no force of nature would stop the angel from inflicting the punishment.

Dean feels betrayed, and he thinks that perhaps that hurts the most, but another left hook to his opposite side makes him second-guess the romanticized notion.

Hell hath no fury like an angel scorned.

Problem is, Dean doesn't have a clue why Castiel is in such a violent, pissy mood.

Another blow to his ribs, and then thin, surprisingly powerful fingers curl in his short hair and drag him closer, closer, ever closer, until his bleeding face is but a scant few inches from Castiel's hardened features.

Cas stares at him for a long while, and Dean's vision has gotten so hazy he sees two nerdy bastard angels holding him upright instead of just one. His head is swimming and slick trails of crimson are gurgling out of his mouth and slipping down his chin. He thinks he must've looked quite the pretty sight, because the angel assaulting him stops his brutal beating and instead stares at Dean's split lips.

Dean gathers up the blood in his mouth, gives a little smile, then happily spits it out onto Castiel's face.

He's disappointed when that garners no reaction.

Castiel jerks Dean forward and holds him up by the collar of his shirt, then spreads the palm of his free hand through the rough locks of Dean's brunette hair and leans forward until there is nothing but mere centimeters between their lips.

"You shouldn't have done that," Cas says softly, his tone almost regretful, and before Dean can even think, _Whatcha gonna do about it, huggybear?_ he is thrown, quite violently, to the rough, sand-strewn ground. His head hits a rock, and he almost laughs because that's the lightest blow he's had in the past minute and a half his angel friend has been beating the shit out of him.

"Cas, _stop_ ," he coughs up, lashing out with his feet once the angel is in range, but Castiel simply dodges the weak-willed move and flutters into thin air only to reappear behind Dean. A sharp dress shoe kisses the top of the hunter's head -- viciously -- and when Dean has stopped rolling from the force of the blow, Castiel is suddenly _there_ again, behind him, gripping him tight and raising him from this angel-inflicted perdition.

" _Cas_."

Dean doesn't understand. He is in pain and he is angry, and all he wants to do is punch Castiel in the face and make him _hurt_ , but most of all Dean _doesn't understand_.

There is no reply, but Cas lifts him up off the ground until his toes are trailing in the dust and the sand, and then, without much warning, the angel draws a fist back and slams it into the side of Dean's skull.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again and again and again and again and a- _fucking_ -gain.

What hurts the most, Dean thinks as he falls into unconsciousness, is that Castiel was all he had left.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
He can't really say he hasn't woken up in handcuffs before, but he can say this is the first time he's woken up in handcuffs to the image of an angel in a trench coat staring haughtily down his nose at him.

He can hear the blood rushing through his head, and see the way his heart is pushing it out through his open wounds. Red chokes down his throat and into his stomach, and it tastes pretty fucking awful, but right now his delicate palette is the least of his worries.

Castiel comes closer and hovers over him and doesn't say a word until Dean, lips dry and esophagus slick with blood, gives a little sneer.

"What the fuck have you done with Cas?" he asks, green eyes flitting upward to lock with electric blue.

The angel furrows his brow, tips his head, and rests his hands in the pockets of Jimmy's trench coat.

"What?"

"The fuck did you do to Cas!" he growls out, coughing at the weight of his own emotions as they press further into his chest. Castiel wouldn't do this. Castiel was his _friend_ , his _ally_ , and so the only other explanation was that the being standing before him now was some creature simply possessing Jimmy Novak's body.

Castiel steps forward, looms (he is so very good at that), and bends down at the waist to peer into Dean's eyes from a distance of _oh my god is he going to kiss me?_ inches away.

"You think I'm not Castiel?" Castiel asks.

"I fuckin' _know_ you're not Cas," Dean answers.

The angel straightens up at that, reaches down instead, and lays a hand over Dean's bound wrists.

"You sound so sure of yourself," he muses, stroking the chafed skin and watching with mute awareness as the hunter struggles in his bonds to move away. "Perhaps that is best," and the way his voice hardens and loses all sense of emotion is so uncannily resemblant of Cas' 'I'm a good angel-scout' days that it makes Dean's blood run cold.

He lays his head back against the wooden post he has been bound to, and stares up at the body of Jimmy Novak.

Jimmy Novak, previously possessed by an angel, now nothing more than fodder for an unknown body snatcher.

"He'll find me," Dean says when the man before him turns away. "Sam, Cas, Bobby. They're gonna find me, and you're gonna be one sorry son of a bitch."

The ominous _shiiinkt_ of something sharp and something metal makes a million restless butterflies flutter inside Dean's stomach. His kidnapper turns around, head tilted in that quintessentially Castiel posture, and balances a box cutter in his right hand, blade extended.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that."  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
Castiel shudders and doubles over. He is hidden in the confines of a potential vessel's mind, disguised as a conscious and doubling as a prisoner. There are dogs looking for him, with bright teeth and vicious nails, and they are capable of rending his presence in half. He is not an angel right now, and he does not have the potential to be a human, so he is trapped in the space between; the marks of a ghost, or something terribly ethereal. He knows where he is, but he does not yet know _when_ , only that Creation is still fairly new and humanity is slowly losing itself to the sins of his fallen brethren.

The woman whose mind he has taken up residence in has just fetched a vase of water from her father's well and is making the slow trek back home. Up the rubble and through the mortar, past dust and sand and more dust. Blotted edges of trees give her shade and cool her temple, and after several miles of walking through the harsh land, she sets down her vase and leans her back up against a tree. A moment of indulgence, a modicum of rest. Castiel knows if she were to be spotted, she would be punished for her laziness.

She is only twelve.

To the east stretches the well-worn path back to her village. To the south is an expanse of desert so vast, it would take an entire caravan three days to cross it.

Castiel must get to the other side.

He presses to the forefront of her thoughts, and lets his wings glide just beneath her eyelids, disrupting her impromptu afternoon nap.

"Hello?" she asks, jarring herself awake and peering around the area. It is barren.

She shrugs and leans back against the tree, and the angel brushes a wing more insistently inside of her thoughts. He cannot communicate with her in any other way because she isn't one of those special people. He cannot whisper because she might start bleeding from the ears.

This time when she startles awake, she doesn't speak, but instead furrows her brows and stares at the sky.

Castiel runs his ghostly fingers across each of her vertebrae, incites a shiver down her spine, and guides her with will alone to look out across the desert. She is compelled to leave all of her possessions behind and step out into the wilderness on a suicidal trip. She shakes her head and ignores the feeling.

It doesn't help.

The angel is insistent, beating his wings more forcefully against the back of her skull, giving her a rising headache that is only relieved when she looks towards the southern path.

"No," she mumbles when she stands. "I'll die."

He hates this, and he hates himself even more, but he can't leave Dean alone with Lucifer, he just _can't_.

He soothes her spirit, then, with fingers etching Enochian symbols into her mind. _It will be okay_ , they say, and she moves forward unwillingly.

The girl will survive the trip there -- Castiel has enough grace to sustain her body -- but she will be dead the moment he leaves her.

And he must find Dean.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
 _There were no secrets in Heaven. What Michael knew, all the angels soon knew. God was working on a new project, and it was gonna be_ big _._

Most everyone seemed excited by the concept, and really, it was difficult not to be swept up in the swell of praise and jubilation that rang from the heavens. God is working! God is working! _The last time He had settled down to 'work on something', He had created, well,_ existence _._

So yes, Lucifer understood why there was much ado about this ambiguous 'project', but that still did not explain away the fact that he had been feeling rather odd as of late. He was curious, as everyone was curious, about what God had in store, but on the same token he was... something else entirely.

The emotion hadn't been created yet. There was no way to name what coiled inside his chest and threatened to sweep over him like a sickly tremble.

He ignored it. He had been doing that more and more often lately.

Instead, he turned his attention to his brother, letting the sweep and glide of the other's grace calm and soothe tired nerves. The Lightbringer spent veritably every waking moment with Michael, and though that wasn't a very common thing amongst the Heavenly Host, Lucifer could see it written plain as day on Michael's face that the Archangel hardly minded.

Their bond was deeper than blood. It was spirit.

There was a courtyard in Heaven that served as a sort of training ground for the warriors of God, and set in the middle of this courtyard was an arena where swordsmen fought for sport, sometimes with an audience of bright beings, sometimes just for practice. The ring was worn dirt, red flecks glimmering in shades of brown, and was surrounded by a circular stadium of stone bleachers. Pillars were scattered about the area, perfectly symmetrical, acting as a sort of barrier between the audience and the fight below.

Lucifer leaned against one of these such pillars, arms crossed, robe hanging limply across his thin body, and watched from the sidelines as his brother sliced and swayed to the rhythm of the song he had just taught him. Michael's sparring partner was fierce, certainly no lightweight, but really didn't stand much of a chance against the Archangel.

Michael wasn't called the Swordsman for nothing, after all.

They danced, wove around each other, both trailing beautiful designs in the dust with the tread of their feet. Lucifer focused on these designs, fascinated by the art created from a battle, but his attention was suddenly jerked back towards the fight when a clang of fire rang like thunder through the air.

Metal beating against metal had a distinctive, bright sound, and most of the angels used traditional steel or iron swords to have their fun.

But not his brother.

Lucifer couldn't help but quirk his lips up in a half-smile at the sight of his older sibling spinning around a sword made of nothing but a great raging flame. The handle was light itself, shining like the sun; the blade was honed silver, polished red, bursts of orange and flares of gold. He swung the dazzling weapon to and fro, reaching out as if it were an extension of his own arm. His motions were fluid, alluring, as he danced the most dangerous dance known to their kind.

The other angel held a sword similar, though the flame was not as large, and that mostly had to do with the willpower within him. Michael was a rock, solid and firm and confident, if not a little cocky. His sword answered in kind to his attitude -- it was powerful, a force to be reckoned with.

When two metal swords clashed, it rung like the pitch of a bell.

When two flaming swords clashed, the sound was nothing short of a roar _._

Back and forth, here and there, they swung and chopped and sliced and diced. Michael jabbed forward and his sparring partner side-stepped the blow. The other angel swept his arm in a sideways arch and Michael jumped back just out of reach. Wings spread like frightening emblems, testaments to their power.

The stranger's were grey, and they shook and rattled something fierce. Michael's were blinding white, but the shadow they cast seemed tinged in gold. His wingspan was a splash of morning colors, bright and grand and unbearably beautiful.

It took Lucifer's breath away to watch him fight, to see his fury behind smiling lips, the concentration that furrowed his brow.

A flap of wings, and soon Michael was up in the air. His initial ascent was quick and unexpected, leaving the other angel staring up at him in confusion. He did not stay in flight for long, jerking his wings to the side, then tilting his body and folding them to his ribcage to give him the kind of momentum he needed for a free-fall. The move was enacted swiftly, and the other angel had barely just enough time to raise his sword above his head in defense before spurts of flame clambered with his own blade and spit and hissed just above his head.

Michael fell directly in front of him, his feet making an indention in the ground, his arms raised in vengeance and his lips parted in a snarl.

The sight was magnificent, and just the thought of being on the receiving end of such glorious judgment brought a shiver to Lucifer's spine.

The fight ended then. The other angel lost his footing and crumpled to the ground. He nearly lost his balance and toppled backwards, but Michael jerked his sword out of the way and caught his hand just in time, hoisting him upwards with a friendly smile on his face.

Lucifer decided now was a good time to trot over.

"Good match, Uriel," he heard upon arriving at his brother's shoulder, then peered over at Michael before letting his iridescently blue eyes fall on the other angel.

"Uriel," he said as well, giving a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment.

Uriel smiled at Lucifer before shaking the hand that still held onto his own and whispering soft words of Enochian to make his sword lose its flame.

"Lucifer," he said, sheathing his weapon in the scabbard at his side. "Always a pleasure. You came just in time to watch me let your brother win."

"Let _me win?" Michael barked out, clapping a hand on Lucifer's shoulder before letting out a raucous laugh. Uriel's eyes strayed towards the hand briefly, at the spot where both angels conjoined, before flickering back towards Michael's unreasonably blue eyes. "I have to fight you like a fledgling just to keep your precious grace intact!"_

"I suppose you picked up your technique from a fledgling as well," Uriel shot back, a half-smile on his lips.

"I still won," Michael said in sing-song, then wrapped his left arm fully around Lucifer's shoulders and lazily twirled his sword in his right.

Uriel bowed his head in acknowledgment, then side-stepped the two brothers and threw Michael an amused look. "I won't go so easy on you next time."

Michael gave another laugh, then watched Uriel exit the sparring grounds and turned his full attention to his little brother.

"So, what brings you to this side of Heaven today, Luc?"

"The same thing that brings me to this side of Heaven every day."

Lucifer looked pointedly at his brother, tilted his head, and Michael chuckled.

"The choir boys are that bad again, huh? I thought your drink gave them perfect pitch, or something."

The Lightbringer's eyes were smiling, but he couldn't help but sigh.

"It soothes their voices; it doesn't manipulate them."

"Huh." Michael gripped his brother's shoulder lightly and walked them over towards the bleachers. "Shame."

"You're insufferable," Lucifer said while sitting down.

"You say that every time I see you," Michael remarked while settling down beside him.

"I'm fond of the truth."

"You're fond of making me feel bad, is what you're fond of."

Lucifer couldn't help the hint of a smile that marred his otherwise stoic features. His brother took notice, but only nudged him on the shoulder and laughed again. Michael did that a lot -- he was a rather merry angel to be so terribly vehement.

"I want to learn the sword," the younger brother said suddenly, without pretense, and looked over at the other.

Michael, at first, seemed confused. He thought perhaps he hadn't heard that right, because Lucifer, though glorious in his own right, was far from a warrior. He was more peace seeking than the dogs of Heaven, too genteel to dirty his hands with conflict, but the bright, hopeful look in his eyes caught and held the Archangel's attention.

"Why?"

Lucifer turned away, let his eyes drift across the somehow glistening dirt that was scarred by the recent spar waged on it.

"You look beautiful when you fight," he offered by way of explanation, and Michael, flattered, choked on a quick intake of air.

"If you looked any more dazzling, Luc, I'd call you vain."

Something clenched in Lucifer's stomach when he glanced over and saw Michael's profile. The other angel leaned forward, set his elbows on his knees, threaded his fingers together, and laid his chin atop them.

"Fine," he sighed, then glanced over at his younger brother and added almost reluctantly, "You will make a fine warrior."

Lucifer would prove as much, soon enough.  
   
   
   



	3. Luminous [Part Three]

  
   
 _They are going to find him._

"Dean."

 _They are going to come._

"Dean, you must concentrate."

 _Sam will rescue him. Sam will take him away--_

Two hands, strong and cruel, grab his wrists and jerk them down; forcing his fingers to curl around a blade, forcing that blade to dig into pliant flesh, forcing that pliant flesh to scream and scream and scream.

"You're doing it wrong. Now try again."

And the hands let go, giving Dean enough room to mutilate his own leg. Analytical blue eyes stare down at him, pressing, insistent.

 _Sam will come for him and fucking kill Castiel and Dean will live happily ever after, and he might just kick Cas' dead body for good measure, too._

It has been two weeks, and Dean had to admit, he'd been pretty doubtful at first. Of _course_ that wasn't Cas. Cas would never hurt him like this! Cas was his friend! Cas was his ally, and the fact that his nerdy angel buddy would turn so violently against him just didn't compute.

But the torture continued, and the little quirks of Castiel's personality remained constant, etched into stone; the same old Castiel he'd known for months now. And, really, when he thought about it, everything just made _sense_.

Castiel was sorry.

He couldn't help it.

It had to be done.

It all fell into place, clicked inside Dean's mind like a switch had been flipped.

Castiel had been _ordered_ to torture Dean. Maybe out of pleasure, maybe out of spite, maybe out of bribery, but no matter the reason, Castiel had complied.

"Dean," comes that low, gruff voice again, and suddenly those same cruel fingers that had forced Dean to twist a knife into his leg are on his face, tilting his chin, brushing along his cheek in a soothing gesture.

"You must do this, Dean," Castiel whispers, leaning in, and Dean is terrified that the angel is going to take advantage of him like he's hinted at so many times these past two weeks. But he doesn't -- not yet, not this time -- and instead stops inching closer once they are eye level with each other.

Dean is on the rack. One hand is still cuffed in place, but his left has been freed to give him the opportunity to perform self-mutilation.

If he doesn't do the deed, Castiel will, and Castiel is damned good at it.

 _Why?_

It's on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back just in time. 'Why' gets him nothing but punishment and humiliation, pain and suffering, and beyond that, Castiel never answers the question anyway.

The 'why' doesn't matter; this is something he has learned. It is only the act itself, the depth of the moment, that really counts. Nothing else is tangible, nothing else has a reason.

It doesn't matter that Castiel is hurting him, because even after figuring out the 'why' behind it, in the end, Castiel is still _hurting him_.

Another slice, another cut, another glance to seek his kidnapper's approval. If the angel isn't pleased, Dean suffers the consequences, and so it has become his life's goal, in order to survive, to please Castiel.

Blood runs freely down his leg, warm on the onset but cooling with each long drip that slides down his skin. By the time the rivulets reach his feet, they are chilly and unpleasant.

 _Sam will come for him._

 _Sam_ has _to come for him._  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
He doesn't know when it happens. Time is transient when the hours of the day are marked by the number of gashes cut into his skin. Breath has little meaning when each inhale and exhale comes with a shaky knowing that it very well may be his last. The world has shrunk until the pinpoint of existence is measured in teaspoons of blood.

He doesn't know why it happens, either, but why has lost its meaning and, besides, he's way too fucking delirious to grasp the concept of cause and effect.

Dean has survived forty years in Hell.

He is incapable of living through those forty years again.

He supposed it might have been sometime after the first jarring realization that he was going through substance withdrawal that his mind took a turn for the worst.

Heavenly cocaine his _ass_. No drug could be taken without consequences. The warning label on euphoria had unfortunately been in tiny, incomprehensible print.

First, the shudders, like the precursor to a four course meal; the aches and terrible, violent wrenching. Then, the sickness; that bone-deep bile that coiled inside every orifice he had, arched like some great, rotten beast out of the very depths of his body. He is not given the mercy to black out and slip into blissful quiet -- he is, instead, pressed and pulled, jerked and cut and poked and prodded into mute, shocked submission.

Castiel is there on the day he breaks. Castiel is always there.

He had been shying away from the clean blade that cut the flesh on his arms into neat, pretty little ribbons when, quite suddenly, he had sucked in a breath, clenched his eyes closed in abject horror, and let out an unwilling, mortified sob.

It _hurt_ , dammit. It hurt _so much_ he could hardly _stand it_.

The angel stops, lets the knife sink an inch or so deeper into Dean's skin, watches the reaction he gets as a result, and then he pulls away entirely.

"Dean?" The voice is unnervingly calm. "Dean, are you alright?"

Dean chokes back another sob at that, because, honestly? It has been far too long since anyone has bothered to ask him that question, and so his heart veritably bleeds for his captor. He doesn't respond, but his silence prompts the angel to move in closer.

"Dean," comes that smooth, low tone again, and suddenly there is a hand on Dean's chin and gentle fingers insisting he lift his head and face Castiel.

The simple act of turning his face is unbearably painful, and he is sick to his stomach, and he can't stop shaking, and he just wants all of this to _stop_ , and, and-- _ohgod_.

Warm, strong arms are around him in an instant.

"Shh, shh," Castiel soothes, and threads his fingers through Dean's hair. He makes tiny little circles with his thumbs, wraps the locks around his joints and tugs gently, assuredly. "Calm down, Dean. It will be alright." Again, lower, "It will be alright."

Dean wants to die.

He feels like retching because the one person enacting the worst kinds of horrors onto him is now the one person giving him the comfort he needs.

Dean doesn't know when it happens, and Dean sure as hell doesn't know why it happens, but in the end his face is buried in Castiel's shoulder, and his tears are running freely now, and he thinks, most avidly, _I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill you_.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
There comes a point where Dean isn't chained up anymore.

He doesn't have to be.

It is not resignation that prevents Dean from escaping, but rather a lack of the proper mental concepts or, in the very least, the inability to use them.

Castiel has fucked with his head.

Castiel has fucked with his head, yet still Dean thanks him every day for his meals, and his clothes, and the rare moments the angel allows him to bathe, and the even rarer moments when they bathe together, and each night when Dean curls up on the mattress Cas gave him and smiles and laughs and falls back into the other's embrace; thanks him for the scars and the wounds, for the ability -- the _privilege_ \-- to scar and wound himself, and for the soft words, and for the harsh words -- Dean thanks Castiel for _everything_.

There is something called a snowball effect, and even that is not as intense as what has happened to Dean's mind.

They are in the darkness one day, in the little room that Dean never leaves and that Castiel often visits; the one with stone walls and a steel door with metal hinges; the one stained with blood in the far left corner, with claw marks surrounding the exit from blunt nails that did little more than bleed on the mortar while trying to escape. They are there, together, and Castiel comes to sit on the bed beside Dean. There are no weapons in his hand.

Dean is delighted.

"Cas," Dean breathes softly, then leans into him, and Castiel wraps an arm around the human's shoulders, bringing him closer, resting his chin atop the other's head.

"Do you know why I'm here today?" Castiel asks, and Dean shakes his head 'no' and buries his face deeper in the angel's clothing. He doesn't care, just as long as Castiel _is_ there.

He hates being tortured.

He hates being alone even more.

Castiel strokes his hair, lets Dean bask in this rare moment of peace before shattering the illusion.

"On your knees," he says suddenly, then grips the other by the back of his head and pushes him down.

Dean lands on his knees with a crack, wincing as cold stone collides with his achy bones, then peers up at Castiel when the angel releases his head and leans back slightly on the bed.

"You are going to do something for me today, Dean."

A cold shudder runs down the man's spine, but he nods anyway.

Castiel stares at him long and hard and cold and _bitter_ , then tips his head to the side and beckons with a simple gesture.

"Come here."

Dean starts to rise, but is stopped by the cruel glare in the angel's eyes.

"Crawl."

Something worse than withdrawal and worse than torture and worse than isolation comes careening into Dean's skull, and before he can hold the thought at bay, it echoes harshly in his head.

 _Rape._

Dean doesn't budge an inch -- he _can't_ \-- and Castiel leans forward until his elbows are resting on his knees.

"Dean," he says slowly, as if talking to a child. "You will come to me right now, or I will break your kneecaps, set you on the other side of the room, and _then_ make you crawl to me."

The oldest Winchester shakes; Castiel isn't lying.

He nods, then pitches forward and makes his way over towards his kidnapper until he is kneeling between the other man's legs.

"Good boy," the angel remarks, then strokes his prisoner on the cheek and leans back once again. "Now unzip my pants."

"Cas--"

Dean is struck quite suddenly on the side of the head and is tossed towards the other side of the room by the force of the blow. Blessed little black spots of indifference sprout out from between his eyes, and he thinks it would be a wonderful thing to pass out, but he knows his punishment will be even more severe if he allows himself such a pleasure. So instead he pushes up off the ground onto his hands and knees and crawls shakily over towards Castiel.

Nervous hands slide up the angel's legs, past his knees and over his thighs before settling on the zipper. His hesitation only garners him an insistent look.

The deed is done with added cruelty.

"They aren't coming for you," Castiel says when hot breath ghosts over him.

A shudder and a sound of disgust, and suddenly the angel's hands are buried in brown hair.

"Sam. Bobby. They don't love you."

Castiel gives no reaction during the process. It isn't meant for pleasure; it is meant to hurt and humiliate.

Dean has never done anything like this before, and he hates himself for it; the heat, the hardness, the overwhelming sense of inevitable asphyxiation. He _hates himself for this_.

Cas pushes him off but keeps him close.

"Say it."

Dean is confused at first, but a jarring hit to his temple jogs his memory.

"They aren't coming for me," he repeats, his words choking on another sob. "They don't love me."

"No one loves you, Dean," Castiel says softly, reaching down to set the pad of his thumb against the human's mouth. He strokes the other's lips, a tortuously slow measure of spite, then pulls back and brings Dean closer. "Not even me."

Castiel finishes, and Dean swallows, and later, when the angel finally leaves him alone, Dean retches it all back up.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
 _The gardens were beautiful, unchanging in their magnanimous glory, and it was to there that Lucifer retreated at the end of his long practice session with Michael. He wasn't a warrior, that much was completely true, but a benevolent spirit marred by some unexplainable emotion could not a benevolent spirit forever remain, so it was simply easier to vent any source of frustration through the gliding, serpentine movements of a flaming blade. Heat and strength blended with will and fury, righteous judgment, holiness of the most divine kind, and when Lucifer and his brother clashed weapons and struck varying blows, the Heavens rang out in trumpet blasts and rumbles of thunder._

At the end of it all, however, Lucifer needed his rest, and he found it much more attainable when surrounded by the flora and fauna of God's perfect creation.

That day was different.

Lucifer was a creature of habit. He had a particular spot that he went to on every one of his little visits to the gardens, a little outcropping of low-hanging cypress trees and scattered boulders edged by the trickling sound of a stream tuned to E-flat.

As he inched closer to the cove, he took notice of an unfamiliar presence mingling with the pines, the very edge of a wing so midnight black it looked nearly blue unfurling upwards into the air, and then he rounded the corner and there stood one of his brothers staring down into the stream, seemingly ignorant of Lucifer's presence, or their own intrusion on private grounds.

Lucifer pressed closer, let his light flood the area with a sweltering warmth, and stood and watched as the other angel startled and whipped around.

"Hello," Lucifer said while dipping his head to the side. He was more curious than angry.

The stranger blinked, alarmingly electric blue eyes falling to the ground for a moment before slanting back up to pierce through the light and peer at the Morningstar beyond.

"Lucifer," came the gruff reply, and the Lightbringer blinked, wondering if he had any euphoria to spare to this poor, rough-voiced soul.

"I did not mean to intrude," continued the other angel. He paused, glanced to the left, then started to edge away, but Lucifer's calm voice stopped him.

"Oh, no, that's alright. You can stay." He stepped closer, settled down on one of the rocks overlooking the stream, then leaned forward and laid his chin on his fist. "I could do with the company."

The birth of a lie was a subtle thing. Not even the liar himself could dig deep enough to reveal his words as an untruth.

The other hesitated, seemed almost as if he was going to leave anyway, then slackened his shoulders and stood in place.

"As long as I'm not interrupting anything," came the reply, and Lucifer smiled.

"What's your name?" he asked after a few minutes of staring at the water, clicking out a rhythm in the back of his head.

"Castiel."

"Beautiful name."

When Lucifer glanced over to peer at his companion, he was secretly pleased to find the other looking a little flustered. Castiel was handsome in his own right; rugged and unique, with feathers darker than anything Lucifer had ever before seen. They seemed to eclipse his light, to push back the purity of luminance and make way for that yet untold night. It was intriguing, and left Lucifer staring.

Castiel noticed, but said nothing to protest the attention. If anything, he was flattered. He had went to the garden that day to clear his head of some ever-present doubts that were swirling about inside. He'd not expected to meet the _Lightbringer, Lucifer, God's favorite in the flesh._

When there was no reply, Lucifer let out a light, soothing laugh.

"You needn't stand there all day," he said, then scooted over to make room on the boulder and patted the area beside him.

Castiel stared at the rock for a long moment, then broke away his gaze to peer at Lucifer, asking silent permission, and expressing wordless question.

Lucifer nodded.

It was all the permission he needed.

Slowly, the black-winged angel moved closer to the benevolent presence of one favored by God and sat down beside him.

"How has your day been, Castiel?"

"Well."

"A lovely time to take a walk in the gardens, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Do you come here often?"

"No."

Silence.

Lucifer was amused by his brother's quiet nature. He took the time to turn his attention back towards the stream and compose a symphony in his head. Once the melody was intact, he let it branch out from thoughts to tangible ideas expressed by means of vocal adoration. He hummed the song beneath his breath, soft and slow, something aching and beautiful, and after he had come across the third repetition, Castiel's voice interrupted the stanza and drew Lucifer's attention to him.

"Does God still love us?"

The question seemed out of place, but the weight of the words made it obvious that it had been plaguing the angel for quite some time now.

Lucifer was confused at first, but he didn't let his bewilderment show.

"He will always love us, brother," the Lightbringer soothed, giving Castiel the benefit of his full attention. "What ever would make you assume otherwise?"

Something clenched in the Morningstar's chest; the first ugly sign of foreboding.

"There are... whisperings," Castiel finally relented, head lowering as his shoulders fell forward.

"There are always whisperings," Lucifer replied lightly, but his new companion looked so utterly stricken he couldn't help but lay a hand across his shoulder.

Too late, Lucifer remembered that touch wasn't a common occurrence between angels, only that Michael indulged him far too much. Castiel physically shuddered from the contact, but didn't make any effort to move away, and the other angel supposed that was probably a good sign.

"Our Father is working on a new project," he kept on, ebony wings folding out behind him and barely brushing over pure white appendages. "Are we not good enough for Him?"

Lucifer suddenly felt very sick.

"Castiel," he said, making the other snap his head to the left and give him his full attention. "God will always love you and I. Always _. No matter what projects He has in store, no matter what may garner His attention momentarily, He will never stop loving you." A pause for breath, and Lucifer's hand slipped down to grip Castiel's own, fingers twining together to try and exude some level of comfort. "You must have faith."_

The angel stared at him for a very long time after that; just lifted up his impossibly blue eyes and stared and stared and stared.

Lucifer was suffocating, slowly but surely, yet his presence still shone the same.

"Thank you, brother," Castiel finally said, letting out a long sigh and lifting up his hand, unwittingly denying Lucifer the physical contact he needed most. "You are right, of course." And then, with the smallest of smiles, "You have to be."

It was funny, though. Lucifer didn't feel _very right._  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
It has been almost a month now, and Sam has no fucking idea if Dean is alive, save for that gut instinct telling him that he _is_ , and really, through all of the all-nighters, through all of the days without food, without human companionship, with nothing but this _idea_ that Dean is out there, somewhere, Sam really feels as if he's going batshit insane.

It's like Dean's death all over again, only worse, because when Dean was dead, at least Sam knew where he _was_.

So it's another fast meal, another diner dash, another pit stop at another backwater gas station, and he's on his way again, scouring the country for any sign of his brother; any little clue that could possibly lead him in the right direction.

He finds it in New Mexico.

Between the cheap hot tamales and watered-down fuel, sometime after mile marker twenty-three and before Sam has resigned himself to crashing the impala into the nearest cactus (which he would _never_ do, because it's Dean's fucking car, and Dean would fucking _kill him_ ), the radio flickers to life and a voice calls out to him.

" _Sa-- S--m. C--n yo—h--r me?_ "

Oh yeah. That's definitely food poisoning.

Sam changes the station.

Lady Gaga is interrupted by an unmistakable voice.

"Cas?" Sam asks, then fiddles with the radio and hears some sound of distress.

" _D--n't. Sam-- st--p._ "

He readjusts the dial back to the original radio station, then pulls over onto the side of the road and leans back, blinking away the crazy from his mind.

" _Sam?_ "

What was going on? Seriously? There was a line of insanity, and it was about to be crossed.

" _S--m?_ "

Impala-Cas was talking to him -- it was rude to keep him waiting.

"Cas, where are you?"

" _N--t of imp--ort._ "

Right. Of course.

" _Lis--en. Find th-- pro--phet._ "

"Chuck? Cas, what's going on here?"

" _Fi--nd h--im. Me--t th--re._ "

The chorus of _Bad Romance_ drowns out the fading tones of Castiel's electronic voice, and when Sam is certain the angel isn't going to be contacting him again, he flips off the radio and snatches up his cell phone.

It rings once.

"Hey, Bobby? We've got a lead. Do you know where Chuck Shurley is?"  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
He isn't proud of what he's done, and he can't help but say a silent prayer when the body of the twelve-year-old drops to the ground, burnt and charred and un-salvageable, but the time is harsh, and the land is cruel, and Castiel, insubstantial being that he now is, must now make sacrifices that he would otherwise never have made.

It is there, on the edge of a sand trap, behind the bush and the dry, dirty walls of a natural monument to God's grace; beyond the towering structures of rock and stone that rise up like monoliths from the ground, is the Garden.

 _The_ Garden.

Eden.

He has a general conceptualized idea of what time Lucifer has thrown him to, but it flickers in and out of his grasp every now and then, and Castiel knows the flux of time is merely another obstacle set in place that he must overcome. For Dean.

He steps beyond the invisible barrier that separates what is seen from what is felt, and it is here that human eyes are not needed; that human eyes, in fact, would be blinded -- _burned_ \-- by glory. So he breathes like an angel, sets loose his heavenly gaze out across the barren wasteland of desert and depravity, and instead of looking, he _sees_.

There is beauty and lush, luxurious landscape. There are skies set aflame with red and pink and orange. The barrier rises up, magnificent and sleek, and at the gates of this little slice of Heaven on Earth stands the pinprick of a figure, back straight, flaming sword in hand. Castiel draws closer, though he already knows who is there, senses by his familiar presence and unwavering aura.

Uriel.

Now remains the ever enduring problem of his lack of a vessel, his lack of a true existence. Uriel is an angel without a human suit to wear. Castiel has dropped his vessel several miles beyond. He is neither as substantial as his brother standing at the gates of Eden, nor as breakable as a child of Adam.

Castiel isn't sure what he is, but he knows that he must get back to his own time, and back inside his own vessel, and back to Dean.

It is this last thought that spurs him on, propels him forward.

The Uriel that stands before the Garden of Eden is not the same Uriel that betrayed Castiel and slaughtered their garrison, angel-by-angel. Castiel must keep this in mind when he steps out into plain view and is suddenly faced with the righteous, shining face of his old ally.

There is hesitation on the other's part -- it is tangible in the air, and shifts with each unabashed flutter of shuddering wings -- but he continues on, sure of foot, steady and confident.

Angels are like animals in that right. Uncertainty is seen as a weakness. Orders, faith, orders, faith; that is all there is to their lives. Fear is something not bred in them, emotion something unnatural altogether.

Castiel aches for Dean, and he feels each push and pull enacted on his friend's body, and he knows this is unnatural.

He keeps walking, letting ghostly fingers trail in the shimmering air, and when he reaches a point preemptive of an actual threat, he pauses and calls out across the great divide.

"Uriel."

He has to shout to whisper.

The other angel hears him immediately, spares a glance at his station, then spreads his massive wings and launches up into the air. A shadow is cast on the land, across Castiel's body, and when Uriel lands a scant few feet from his prone form, the heat of a flaming sword etches scarring little symbols in Castiel's nonexistent flesh.

"No one may pass," Uriel informs coldly. His feet edge from side to side, and he swings his sword.

He is bored. Castiel can sense it.

"I do not seek entrance."

Doubt seeps into the air through the presence emanating just in front of him.

"What are you?"

"An angel of the Lord."

Uriel pauses, gives Castiel an obvious once-over, then settles back on his heels and quirks his lips to the side.

"Poor example of one."

Castiel ignores the verbal blow.

"I need your assistance."

"Do you now?"

Uriel twirls his sword again, obviously pleased with this advantage he has over the other.

 _When humans want something, they lie._

"I am a messenger."

The flaming weapon pauses, if but briefly, in mid-air. The other angel, wings tipped in gray, blinks once, then gives a laugh.

"You're a very bad liar, aren't you?"

Dean needs him. Dean _needs_ him.

Castiel is suddenly taller; not by physical means, but through a spiritual force that gives his presence immeasurable power. He was once stationed above Uriel for a reason. Castiel is a warrior, and a damned fine one at that, and his strength of character has not eroded over the course of recent events; it has grown.

He doesn't have time for this.

He has to make a deal with God.

"Give me your sword."

"What?" Uriel seems confused, takes a step back, regards this strange new being telling him to cast away his weapons all willy-nilly.

Castiel advances, tips his head down and slants his eyes upward until his glare is sharp enough to cut crystal.

"You will give me your sword, or I will take it from you."

Dean needs him.

The other angel gives out a short bark of laughter, all bitterness and cruelty.

"I'd like to see you try."

Castiel does so hate to disappoint.  
   
   


~*~*~*~

   
   
It happens again, each time progressively worse, until all Dean wants to do at the end of the day is huddle up on the corner of his meager bed and _die_.

He isn't given that luxury.

Castiel is always watching, even if he's not always there, and Dean can feel his eyes on him during the worst parts of the day; during the breakdowns, and the nightmares, and the violent tremors that rock his body like a storm rocking a boat. Waves of torture mingle with moments of respite, and each night Dean falls into the angel's arms, seeking the comfort so freely given to him because, _dammit_ , that might constitute as genuine insanity, but shriveling up in this new personal Hell, all alone, with nothing but the lack of sympathy to keep him company, will certainly drive him to _suicide_ , and he's close enough as is.

Dean hates Castiel. He hates him more with each passing day, with every gentle brush of fingers along his collarbone, with every wicked twist of the knife. He needs him, and he hates him, and he hates his need for him, and he hates his _hate_ for him. None of it makes sense, and it spirals out of control in his mind until there is nothing left but the single, aching thought of survival.

Sam is not coming for him.

Bobby is not coming for him.

Castiel hates him.

Dean will survive for Dean, because he's a Winchester, and Winchester's are too fucking stubborn to die and _stay dead_.

Death is staved off by compliance, compliance accomplished by disassociation, disassociation achieved with the constant nourishment of slow, steady delirium.

When Dean breaks, he breaks with the will of a warrior. There is nothing to keep him from slipping due to the severity of his situation, but he holds on to a thread he himself has concocted, and he learns to cope. Part of him is sectioned off in his mind, tucked away safely in the vast corners of his psyche, hidden in a little compartment that not even an angel can reach.

The rest has reverted to an unbearably childlike nature.

He thinks about Castiel, and about how much he would like to kill Castiel, and about how many times Castiel has killed a little bit of him on the inside, and when the angel in question steps through the barrier separating Dean's prison from the outside world, Dean lifts his arms and stretches his fingers outward and _begs_ with his eyes, _pleads_ for Castiel to hold him.

Sometimes, Cas complies.

Sometimes, Cas lashes out and cuts a line from wrist to elbow in yielding flesh.

It varies from day-to-day, really, but Dean still tries, despite the possible repercussions.

"How are you today, Dean?"

"I'm fine."

"Try again. How are you today, Dean?"

"I'm... I'm wonderful?"

"No. Again. How are you, Dean?"

"I--"

"Don't lie to me."

"I-- It hurts."

"What hurts?"

"Everything."

Castiel comes at him with a knife, and all Dean can do is cringe when it sinks into his side.

"Does that hurt?"

"Yes."

Castiel twists it.

"Does _that_ hurt?"

" _Yes_."

"Do you want it to stop hurting?"

"Yes-- yes, _please_."

"Do you love me, Dean?"

Dean can't process the words. All he can do is feel the pain.

Castiel doesn't allow him to remain silent. He pulls out the knife, then puts it back in, like fitting a compartment to a slot. Methodically.

"Do you love me?"

"Y-yes, _yes_."

"Wrong. Try again."

"I do, Cas. I do!"

The weapon jiggles back and forth inside of him.

"What did I say about lying, Dean?"

"Cas, _please_."

"Please what?"

"Stop. Please stop. _Please_ stop."

"Stop what?"

Dean can only whimper at this point.

"You want me to stop driving this knife into you?"

A nod.

"And I want you to stop lying to me."

Another nod, but this time it is soft and hesitant. Dean has lost the ability to breathe correctly.

"Do you love me, Dean?"

There is something broken in the room, something shattered into a million tiny pieces when Dean looks up and there are tears in his eyes.

"No."

Something in the silence is threatening.

"Do you _hate_ me, Dean?"

"Y-yes."

Castiel pulls back the knife and drops it to the ground. The resounding clatter ricochets off the walls, cruel and jarring. The angel leans forward, then, gathering Dean up in his arms, running his fingers through the other's hair, smoothing back the tangled tresses and smothering him with physical comfort.

"Shh, shh," he soothes, guiding the human's head to his chest, stroking him like some kind of poor, pathetic pet. "Calm down, Dean. It will be alright. Your punishment will only be twice as severe tomorrow."

Dean shudders, and he wonders if this is worth living through.  
   
   
   



	4. Luminous [Part Four]

  
   
"Oh my _god_ , it's Castiel!"

The room is serenaded in screeches so high-pitched, Castiel wonders if these humans are part nephilim, because the frequency, quite frankly, reminds him of something very loud, and something very Enochian.

He blinks once, then swallows hard, because the last time he was surrounded by so many people of the feminine persuasion, there had been a lot of shouting, and even more throwing, and he had been ran out of the building.

The shouting is nearly the same, and he's fairly certain the women tossing themselves at him counts as 'throwing', but this time he is clung to, and groped at, and dragged further into the building as opposed to being chased out.

"Where is the Prophet?" he asks in confusion, and the face closest to him shrieks in utter glee.

"He sounds just like I imagined!"

"Great costume, man," a guy comments before smacking him on the back and walking off.

Castiel has no idea what's going on.

"I need to find--"

"Look at his trench coat! It's _perfect_."

"And his eyes! Are you an actor? You've got to be an actor!"

"Don't be stupid. Just because he's got good eyes doesn't mean he's an actor."

"Shut up. You're just jealous because Dean isn't here yet."

"Dean?" Castiel stops abruptly, and is suddenly as immobile as a rock. Several young women fall into him and around him in their shock.

"Aww, look! He's in character! Yep, Cas. Dean is the second act. Your soul mate will be here shortly!"

"Cas is _not_ Dean's soul mate!"

"He totally _is_. Do you even _read_ the chapters between those two? I mean, Carver might as well be writing eye porn!"

"That's just filler stuff. The real story is what's going on between Sam and Dean. They're _obviously_ madly in love."

"And you're _obviously_ ignoring the sign around Cas and Dean's necks saying, 'Hi. I'm homoerotic!'"

"For _Sam_."

"For _each other_."

"Where is Chuck Shurley?"

The impending fangirl war is steered in another direction thanks to the distraction of a rough, insistent voice. Castiel _does not have time for this_ , and if these strange women (who talk too much about porn and soul mates) can't point him in the right direction, then it would be best to leave them behind to their own madness.

"Chuck who?"

Castiel walks away, swiftly and without pause, and his bereft nature gives him enough of a lead to escape the mob of estrogen. His strategy is to find another male in the building to drill for answers, because so far they seem to be the easiest to talk to, but his search is mostly futile (the man from earlier seems to have slunk off somewhere without notice), and the curious, sometimes lustful glances thrown his way unnerve him enough to make him break concentration.

Honestly. What _was_ going on here?

"Excuse me?"

Castiel spins around and is faced with another woman. Blond hair, determined eyes, and a very professional looking clipboard sets her apart from the rest of the crowd.

She gives him a once over, makes a little mark on her papers, then peers up at Castiel with a slightly pissed off look on her face.

"Castiel?"

"Yes?"

"Angel of the Lord?"

"... Yes?"

She's doing his job for him.

"You're late."  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
When Sam arrives, Becky is waiting for him. She babbles happily at him from the front door all the way to the convention room, and would have lingered longer had he not so rudely interrupted her.

"Becky, what the _hell_ is Cas doing up on stage?"

She seems unaffected by his obvious distress.

"Cas? Oh, that's just an actor."

"No, that's an angel about to smite a room full of innocent civilians."

Becky wrenches her adoring gaze away from Sam long enough to glance over at the man on stage.

"He looks docile enough."

Sam can't deny the fact that she's absolutely right. Castiel looks more than docile; he looks outright _timid_. It's an odd thing to watch, but Sam can't stop staring at what's unfolding right in front of him. A scattering of fans take up the seats at the front of the fairly large room, all eyes turned towards the stage, gawking at what they assume to be a man pretending to be an angel.

Castiel's eyes are flitting in and out of the crowd, unaware of Sam's presence because he is wholly focused on the task of getting every raised hand in the room to lower. They are playing a game. If someone has a question, they raise their hand, and for Castiel to get them to lower their hand back down (short of exerting much-needed angelic energy) he has to answer their question for them. The only problem was that for each time he got one hand to lower, at least five more popped right back up. It was becoming quite tedious, but for the most part, the drilling questions were easy to follow.

The intricacies of angelic hierarchies, Enochian sigils, the physicality of grace and the repercussions of falling. Simple stuff.

They had even asked him to teach them a phrase in Enochian, and he had recited the syllables of a simple line. When asked what it meant, he had tipped his head and given that almost-smile of his.

"You breed with the mouth of a goat."

The entire room had laughed at that, just one steady rumble of mutual amusement, and Castiel's smile had grown.

He is anxious, however, for this 'second act' to come on, and for Dean to arrive.

"So why'd you do it?" someone asks suddenly, and Castiel's eyes are drawn towards another raised hand, and the figure of a man rising with it.

"Do what?" Castiel asks, confused.

"Fall. I mean you gave up, what? Status, prestige, power, _Heaven_. For what? He doesn't even really like you all that much. Are you gay?"

There are a lot of questions from this man, Castiel thinks.

The man is booed quite viciously by the rest of the crowd, but he is entirely too unaffected by their displeasure. He seems to rather like the attention, in fact, and keeps on.

"He isn't your family, he's barely your friend. What's the motive? Just bad writing? Just Carver catering to the fangirls?"

Castiel doesn't understand why he's angry at this insignificant little waif of a human, but the words grip his bones and stick to his ribs, all slimy and unrepentant. He thinks of some way to overlook the questions entirely, and in doing so glances up, and in doing _that_ sees Sam standing towards the back of the room. He nods once in acknowledgment, and is a little perplexed when all the younger Winchester does is give him a short shake of his head. Displeased. Amused. Perhaps both.

Either way, they must find the Prophet amidst all this chaos.

Castiel is suddenly nothing more than righteous fury; clear, blue eyes as harsh and bright as a tempestuous ocean. He levels his gaze with the man, forces him to sit down with that look alone.

"Love."

Castiel disappears from the main stage and reappears beside Sam at the back. Chuck arrives with Bobby at his side, and about the same time the room is filled with hysterical screams, those shouts are cut off just as abruptly as every innocent bystander is banished to another part of the state. The doors shut and lock a second after that, and Sam, through much rough handling, finds out that they won't budge an inch.

"Hello, Sam."

The second act has arrived.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
 _His fingers did not tremble when they reached up and cupped the side of Michael's face. They were steady, strong, perhaps a bit more insistent than they needed to be, but Lucifer had always been of a gentle nature, and it wasn't within him --_ yet _\-- to use force._

He was used to getting what he wanted, and, really, he didn't want for much. But now, this _, it was something he craved; fingers digging into the bicep of his brother, eyes seeking any hint of hesitation, any hint of disgust._

There was nothing there, and that was what disconcerted Lucifer the most.

There was nothing _there; naught but a void, and the echo of a hole hollowed out within the recesses of Michael's soul._

"Brother, please _," Lucifer pleaded once again. He would not beg forever, but his brother was worth the effort of trying._

"I cannot."

"Michael, we have given everything for Him, and how does He repay us? By replacing us!"

"Lucifer!"

A hand flew across the Lightbringer's mouth, clamped it shut with brutal force, and all that could escape was a mild sound of protest before Michael leaned in unbearably close and whispered into Lucifer's ear, "Hold your tongue!"

The younger brother struggled against his sibling's grip, but Michael was bigger, stronger, and had the advantage of carnality over sinuous persuasion. Lucifer could not wriggle out of this.

"He will ask us to bow before them," Michael went on, his presence heavy and laden with a weight that wasn't there before. Still, his determination was branded into his skull, seared behind his eyes, and there would be no swaying his mind. "And I will be the first to take a knee. I suggest you be the second."

There was no suggestion in his tone.

Lucifer was the choir director, unique and creative and well-loved. Michael was leader of the angelic armies, strong and dependable and courageous.

They were brothers.

And soon they would be enemies.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
"So let me get this straight," Bobby says after wheeling himself into a defensive position. "You decided it was a good idea to get us all in a room together, lock the doors, and then _summon the Devil?_ "

"Yes," Castiel answers simply.

"It's official. We've found the real Cas."

Sam thinks it's all good and well that everyone is now in the loop in regards to Castiel's dumb-ass plan, but he can't help but point out that, "Uh, guys. Satan. In the room. _Staring at me_."

"Lucifer," Cas says, drawing the other angel's attention to him, and the other occupants of the room are perplexed by the similarities of this new, unexplained Castiel, and the angel currently taking up residence in Jimmy Novak's body (aside from Sam, because he has the uncanny ability to _sense_ the difference).

Lucifer stares at Castiel from behind Jimmy's eyes, gives him an easy once-over, and it is apparent from the way he tips his head in understanding that all the pieces have slotted neatly into place in a near instant.

"How was your talk with Daddy-dearest, brother?" His voice starts out light and devolves into a nasty sneer. "Looks like he made you a nice little replica here."

Castiel ignores the words, ignores the tone, and instead focuses on the way Lucifer is now pacing around the room.

"I'm surprised He found the time to bother with you."

"He still loves me," Castiel informs the Devil with a bit of a snarl all his own. Dean is out there somewhere, alone, in pain, and this little _bitch_ is the one to blame for it.

This is just the kind of snarky remark Lucifer needs to set him on edge. Castiel is flung back against the wooden boards of the locked door with a thought, and Sam spins on his heel to go check on him.

"Protect the Prophet," Castiel coughs out, grabbing Sam's hand and hoisting himself up with the help of the younger Winchester.

"Isn't that some Archangel's job?" Sam protests, peering over his shoulder to make sure Lucifer isn't planning on sneaking up on them.

"I've detained him," is the angel's ambiguous reply.

" _Dammit_ , Cas," is all Sam can utter before he is on his feet again and flying towards Chuck. Becky is with him, her eyes wide and frightened, her fingers clinging to the edge of his shirt, and Chuck, though slight of a man in his own right, is standing in front of her to act as a physical barrier between her and the Devil.

Castiel looks disarrayed, his hair unkempt and his tie blown askew, but his eyes are positively _righteous_ , and there is something to the tilt of his lips that assures Sam enough to let his focus lay fully on the people he is meant to protect.

The angels face off.

It's like a very bad dance, really, because Lucifer keeps spinning with too much momentum, and Castiel keeps falling to his feet, and there is simply no chemistry between them because they both obviously hate each other's guts. Blood is spilled, and tears are ripped from the carpet. Seats are strewn about on the winds of invisible wings, and both fierce creatures circle each other, staring, analyzing, waiting for the precise, perfect moment to attack.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
 _It was glorious._

A shower of stars fell, careening, burning like nothing he had ever before seen. Embers flickered in the night sky, in the essence of the void.

Even in their destruction, Lucifer found his brethren to be quite breathtaking.

He had rallied his choirs, had instilled little seeds of doubt and hatred into the hearts and minds of those who loved him the most, and had brought it to their attention that God was betraying them. It hadn't taken much to tip a third of the angels over the edge.

If God didn't love their kind any more, then it was up to someone else to rule Heaven's throne.

Someone like Lucifer.

The day had come, and the new baby had been brought home, so to speak. True to his word, Michael had knelt before the two pathetic, naked humans; had set a knee to the ground and sullied his robes in the mud and had pledged his obedience to humanity because God so commanded it.

He had risen afterward and had turned harsh, demanding eyes onto Lucifer.

'Kneel' _, he had said through gaze alone._

The other Archangels had deferred themselves accordingly.

Lucifer's impeccable posture was a resounding, 'No.' __

And now he was fighting his brother, eyes wide and incredulous as Michael came at him with the kind of fierce fury he reserved only for his most tiresome of opponents. A clash of fire on fire, hands twisting in hair and wings beating violently against one another; bruising, hurting, clawing, drawing blood.

"I loved you!" Lucifer cried, his sword jabbing forward, aiming for something vital.

Michael side-stepped the blow and swung an arch of his own.

"I trusted you!" he bellowed back, and then flames collided and sparks rained down on both combatants.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
The room is bathed in darkness when both angels' voices rise in fury and in pitch until mortal syllables are not enough to express what they are saying, and the high, unbearable tones of garbled Enochian shatter the lights.

Little bursts and flares of light gutter out and float carelessly to the ground below, bathing Castiel and Lucifer in pinpoints of fire. Neither angel notices.

Lucifer is fighting for the world. He is fighting for his vanity, and for what he wants most; for the beauty of God's creation, and the destruction of the very creatures undermining that beauty. He is fighting for revenge, and for spite, and because his brother has hurt him, and because his own pain has caused him to hurt everyone else. He is vengeful, and cruel, and capricious, and calm, and smooth, and cold, and efficient in his movements. He is a force to be reckoned with. Lucifer is fighting for Heaven and Earth.

Castiel is fighting for love.

He is fighting for Dean, and the way he laughs when Castiel does something stupid. He is fighting for the witticisms he doesn't always understand, and the verbal jabs and taunting blows that leave him wanting to ask questions he knows he won't understand the answers to. He is fighting for loyalty, and friendship, and cherry pie. He is fighting for the people Dean cares about, and the things he wants, and the experiences he needs, and the places he's never been, and the life he never had. Castiel is fighting for worn out jackets and cheap motels and those lost stretches of road he's never been down, for strong whiskey and iniquitous breeding grounds.

Castiel is fighting for love, and so Castiel will _win_.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
 _Lucifer loved too much, and so Lucifer lost._

Banished, down down down, on a never-ending spiral that ran out far too soon. Broken into a million tiny pieces, glass shattered in the air, crystals of a singing sea he would never speak to again; ghosts of a whisper and threads of a life he was unwelcome to live; adoration for a brother that rejected his devotion. He fell into something that was unending, and he crashed far too soon.

Infinity wasn't what it used to be.

Love wasn't what it used to be.

... Lucifer wasn't what he used to be.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
"Where is Dean Winchester."

Castiel doesn't have to say the threat at the end of those words for it to be heard loud and clear. There is no question as to his intentions. Lucifer will tell him where Dean is, or Lucifer will die.

Lucifer doesn't care for his attitude.

"I must admit, Castiel. I had been wondering why you were keeping Dean around as a pet, but after spending some quality time with him, I'm convinced I need a human of my very own."

His gaze turns towards the younger Winchester, and Castiel doesn't appreciate the predatory look in Lucifer's eyes. He steps between them, blocking the other angel's view.

"You will not lay your hands on Sam." The words are choppy and low, feral in their intensity.

Lucifer laughs, like it's some great big joke.

"I won't have to."

They have already spoken far too much for Castiel's tastes, and with this foreboding string of words, the angel flips the edge of his trench coat to the side and grips tight the hilt of an object that appears to be made of pure light.

"Close your eyes!" he warns avidly before whipping the weapon out from the confines of his clothing and holding it in front of him. He waves it in the air, slow and methodical, and lets the threat of it wash over the only other angelic inhabitant of the room.

"Where did you get that?" Lucifer says, his voice dropping its condescension and instead falling into a pit of muted apathy. He seems unimpressed.

"Uriel."

"Ah. He never was very good at keeping what belonged to him," the other remarks, then stops pacing and lets his eyes fall to the sword. "Father has given you a temporary vessel, has He?"

Castiel merely nods.

"It won't hold you for long, brother, and when your presence overpowers it, you will be lost once again."

Castiel whispers a string of Enochian and the sword flares to life.

Lucifer shakes his head slowly. The other cannot kill him; destroying Lucifer would destroy Jimmy Novak, and destroying Jimmy Novak would decimate Castiel's chances at ever finding a proper human vessel again.

"If you kill me, it will disintegrate the body."

The end of the end is exacted with startling brevity.

"Exactly."

Castiel grips the sword, fingers curling around the hilt, hands weaving around, twirling it, maneuvering the blade like a master of the art, and then he points the spitting, flaming tip towards his own stomach and thrusts it into his body. Lucifer has no time to register this startling development before Cas is whispering soft incantations through blood-stained teeth, and the Devil's unwavering hold on Jimmy's body is slathered in oil and wriggled out between desperate, gripping fingers. Pure light pours out of every open orifice the human contains, staining the pores of his skin and burning little marks into his insides where Lucifer is clawing at the body with blunt fingernails.

He is pulled, instead, into the temporary vessel God has bestowed upon Castiel, and is thrust inside of the dying body alongside his brother. Castiel has struck a blow to the physical host, but the sword has done its damage to his angelic body as well.

Wards have been put in place.

Lucifer is surprised to find himself on the receiving end of immeasurable agony. The second his presence engulfs the replica of Jimmy, little threads dig into his light and weave him into the fabric of that dying body.

Castiel is retreating rapidly, and Lucifer is reaching for him, gripping onto his wings, pulling out feathers and tearing gashes into fumbling limbs to try and hold his brother in place.

Jimmy has fallen to the floor, limp and unmoving, and Sam is drawn to the fabricated body that is currently writhing on the carpet, bursts of light flaring out of its mouth and nose and ears and eyes almost as spontaneously as the hollow shrieks flying from its throat. He only sees part of the picture.

Too much damage has already been done to this vessel, and with these ties binding him to the figure, Lucifer is nothing more than a conscious being trapped inside of a corpse.

Castiel slides from between his fingers and slips quickly into his vessel -- _his_ vessel, with its familiar contours and comforting ridges.

Lucifer is left to writhe on the floor until the fatal wounds take their effect, and then he is left to rot.

"Where is the Prophet?" Castiel asks after he stretches inside of his host and once again becomes familiar with his vocal chords. He is kneeling on the floor and his hands are shaking; everything hurts, and he feels an emptiness inside of him that is a result of Lucifer having stretched his vessel too far, like pulling a sweater over someone two sizes too large. It aches just to breathe, but he isn't done here.

He must find Dean.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
They find him in Arizona, tucked safely away within the confines of an underground bunker. Sam reaches him first. His hands want nothing more than to grip Dean tight and pull him into the safety of his embrace, but his brother's body is bleeding and utterly ravaged, and he fears harming him in some way.

Dean looks so impossibly fragile. He's shivering and unconscious, and he's very pale and obviously sick. Lucifer has kept him closed off from the sunlight for far too long, and when Sam sets the back of his hand gingerly across his older brother's forehead, he finds that Dean is running a terrible temperature.

Lucifer hadn't just been torturing Dean – he'd been neglecting Dean.

Malnourished, underfed, trembling from the cold, damp quarters and laying on the thin, waif of a bed with no sheets and no comforters to cover him. Dean is a mess, and it hurts Sam's heart to see him like this.

He flits about his brother with busy, concise motions, tearing at already torn clothing, using anything he can to temporarily stop the steady flow of blood that seeps down Dean's arms and legs. It's an atrocious sight, but Sam blocks out the images and lets the simplicity of monotony soothe his frayed nerves.

Castiel is the one who had transported him there, but for this the angel hangs back. He knows Sam needs time; he can sense it in the boy's spirit, how it flutters and shudders in tandem with the erratic beat of his heart. Castiel can't heal Dean, and he knows very little of the actual medical stipulations of a man, so he figures it is best to leave the task of patching Dean up to Sam.

"I can't believe you knew where he was," Sam says, and Castiel knows he is starting up a conversation simply to distract himself from the gruesome task of cleaning his brother's wounds with what little water he could find in the room. "I'd already asked Chuck a million times about his visions, but nothing was coherent enough to make sense."

When Castiel doesn't answer, Sam spares him a glance. He is startled to find the angel suddenly right beside him, head canted to the side as he regards Dean in a manner ripe with unbridled protectiveness. It warms Sam's heart, to be entirely honest, to see someone else as protective of Dean as he is. It soothes him, to a degree, and gives his body the ability to relax.

"We need to get him back to Bobby's."

Sam stands and bends down, arms stretching to grapple his brother's unconscious frame into his embrace.

"Let me," Castiel interrupts, stopping him with a look.

"Um. Alright."

Sam is confused, but he can't deny the fact that Castiel would probably have an easier time of shifting Dean around, what with his freaky angelic strength to help him out, and all. Still, he's a bit nervous when the angel leans over and circles Dean's waist in his embrace, hoisting him up into the air and cradling him none too gently against his chest. Dean's head lolls against Castiel's arm, and it is a very odd sight to see someone with as lanky a frame as Jimmy Novak carrying the bulk of someone like Dean Winchester.

Castiel doesn't break a sweat. Dean probably weighs about as much as a feather in his arms.

Sam flits about him for a while, takes one last glance around the room, and then turns towards the angel.

"Ready when you ar—"

He is interrupted by the solid pressure of two fingers against his forehead.

Castiel has been ready.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
Dean looks like shit.

Bobby makes a verbal note of this before wheeling himself away to grab a beer from the fridge.

It's raining outside. The thunder is loud and brash, little rumbles of noise unfurling from the sky as if from the maw of some great, terrible beast. Sunlight has retreated, scared, tail tucked between its legs in the wake of the weather, and perhaps it is fitting that the day of Dean's return would look dreary and gray. It should be a celebration, but no one can shout when everyone is holding their breath.

Sam can't take his eyes off of Dean. He feels so achy and incomplete, because the last time he spoke to his brother, he had said something like, _'Fuck off!'_ or, _'I don't need you!'_ and now all he wants to do is shake his sibling awake and tell him how sorry he is, how stupid he is, how he never meant it and how he doesn't even remember why they were fighting in the first place.

Sam feels so much regret for those lost months, and the taste of it is bitter in his mouth. Alcohol doesn't drown it away, and ignoring it had never worked in the first place, no matter how hard he had tried to convince himself otherwise.

Sam needs Dean. He needs him, and now that he has him, he is reluctant to let him go.

They had arrived at Bobby's house less than an hour prior, and the younger Winchester had not yet budged from his position standing by the door, guarding over the room, guarding over his brother like some sort of private watchdog. It physically hurt him to see Dean in such a bad state of being, but he wouldn't miss a second in Dean's presence for the world right now.

Because Sam is scared. He won't admit it to anyone but himself, but he is _terrified_ that Lucifer is going to come back by some untold means and steal Dean away again.

A knock on the door startles him, nearly making him jump out of his own skin. Sam moves out of the way, and Bobby edges through the door frame just enough to pass him a drink.

"Here," he says, then turns his gaze towards Dean when Sam takes the proffered bottle. "Is he doin' alright?"

It's a stupid question, but Sam doesn't comment on its validity.

"As well as can be expected," he says with a shrug, then pops off the cap of his drink and takes a swig. It isn't until after he swallows a hefty gulp that he realizes it's not alcoholic; it's coke. Sam smiles at that, something warm and pleasant and comforting washing over him; something that screams of _home_.

"Thanks," he adds, tipping the bottle towards Bobby, and Bobby tips his own towards Sam. The glass necks collide, and the clinking noise fills the room.

"So where's that angel of yours gone off to now?"

Sam gives a little laugh. "If he's anyone's angel, he's Deans. And he said something about taking care of Lucifer."

"That little guy, taking on the Devil, alone? _Again?_ "

Sam shrugs, but smiles when the rim of his drink settles against his teeth.

"I think he's a masochist."

"I find no pleasure in pain," Castiel informs the both of them from behind, and Sam spazzes the hell out and drops his bottle of coke to the floor out of pure, unadulterated shock. It remains thankfully intact, but Sam has to scramble down on his hands and knees to retrieve it quickly, before all the contents spill out and make the wood sticky beneath their feet.

" _Jesus_ , Cas!" Sam barks out, inadvertently giving the angel the same reaction Dean is prone to when Castiel plays his little reappearing act on any innocent human standing near.

Castiel doesn't look good, but he blinks and takes a step back regardless.

Bobby eyes him for a minute, then rolls further into the room, unblocking the entrance.

"You better sit down before you _fall_ down," he tells the angel, then nods towards the unoccupied chair sitting beside Dean's temporary bed. Sam has been too busy pacing to be able to sit down for very long, and so the seat has remained blessedly empty.

Castiel eyes it for a moment. He parts his lips, ready to protest the need for rest, but is effectively shut up when Bobby throws him a firm, no-nonsense look. There is no room for argument.

Cas' shoulders relax as he glides through the room and settles down beside Dean. His hair is wet, and Sam wonders at this because he obviously didn't use the front door, but he lets the matter slide.

"Where've you been?" he asks instead.

Dirt stains the edges of his trench coat, weariness stains the edges of his eyes.

"Taking care of Lucifer."

The room grows silent and still.

"How?"

It's Bobby, with his infinitely curious mind, that asks this question.

"I buried him."

Alive. Buried Lucifer alive while he was still trapped within the confines of a body incapable of motion. You couldn't kill the Devil, but you could immobilize him.

"Where?" Sam asks.

"At the bottom of the ocean."

Castiel doesn't specify which one. That's probably for the best.

He runs a hand down his face, fingers scratching through stubble, and it is in that moment that Sam really sees just how worn out Castiel looks.

"Hey, man. You don't look so good," he says, and then Castiel's eyes are upon him, soft and weary and so very, very tired.

"Better than I had expected," he replies optimistically, and then curls in on himself and passes out.  
   
   
   



	5. Luminous [Part Five]

  
   
"... so you see, that wasn't Cas at all. That was Lucifer possessing Jimmy's body and pretending to be Cas. But you're safe now, 'cause Cas threw the Devil into the ocean. So, uh. Want a beer?"

Dean is sitting upright in Bobby's bed, his back propped up against the headboard, and for the past hour and a half he's been flicking his gaze between Sam, Bobby, and the door in a very telling gesture. Sam knows that look. Dean is about to bolt, unless they can somehow convince him that he's safe here, and that no one -- no Devil and no other monster of any type -- is gonna get to him.

Sam is trying his best with reason.

Bobby is studiously ignoring all explanations and has rolled himself in front of the door, confident in the assumption that Dean wouldn't toss a cripple out of his wheelchair in a futile effort to escape.

Nothing is getting through. The only thing Dean has said since his arrival in the conscious world has been, "Where is Cas?" He'd sounded terrified when he'd said it, too. Not afraid _for_ the angel, but rather afraid _of_ the angel. Taking this information and storing it away in his super computer mind, Sam had decided it would be best for Dean not to see Cas until they could at least resolve some of the issues that had barricaded themselves in Dean's head.

Castiel wouldn't stand for this separation, he knew.

Good thing Cas was still unconscious.

He waits for Dean's reply, knowing he won't get one, but it's still frustrating when all Dean does is narrow his eyes at Sam. He doesn't trust him.

The realization stings.

"Okay, look, hey. We're not here to pressure you or anything. We just want to help."

Dean is like an animal. His limbs curl and his body shudders with rage.

"Find Cas."

"We already know where he is," Sam concedes, worn and tired from this constant bickering. He'd already explained the past events to Dean twice, but it still wasn't getting through that thick skull of his.

This bit of news makes Dean more animate. He surges forward and nearly jumps out of the bed, but is halted by his own dizziness.

"Then take me to him."

It's there, in the tone of his voice, that Sam's heart breaks into a million tiny pieces. Dean is afraid of being punished. Sam isn't stupid; he can put two-and-two together, and besides, it's written all over Dean's body language. His spine is trembling, his lips quivering, hell even his eyes are practically screaming, "If I'm not there, he'll hurt me Sam. He'll hurt me!"

Sam wants to reach out to his brother, but the last time he had tried, he'd had to dodge a left hook to his ear.

Something was broken in him. Sam just wanted to fix it.

"You need to rest, Dean. We'll let you see him when he wakes up, but for now, _please_ , just lay back down, alright?"

Mother Hen Sam pleads with his eyes, and Dean shoots him a dirty, distrustful glare before leaning back into the pillows with a sigh.

Sam doesn't know just how fucked up Dean actually is, but he's starting to get the picture.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
They're illusions. They're mirages. They're the last, stuttering holograms of Dean's sanity tempting him to dive headfirst into a sea full of crazy at the bottom of a cliff made of stupid. Fuck, Dean doesn't know _what_ they are, but he's pretty fucking sure they aren't _real_.

Because that would just be crazy.

Because that would just be _too much_.

He swipes a hand down his face once he's alone again, and starts to think more deeply about his predicament.

They had come for him, but Cas had said they didn't love him.

Cas hadn't been Cas, they'd said, but Cas had always _acted_ like Cas, and so to think of him as anything but was steadily rending his psyche in two.

He has a headache, and it won't go away. There's a voice in the back of his head that screams something about sanity and blood and brothers and trust, but Dean is steadily ignoring it in favor of trying to figure out how in the fucking fuck he's gonna get himself out of this one.

It was another test, obviously. Another mind trick Castiel has set up to try and trip him up; another way to hurt him. And it does hurt. It hurts more than he could have ever imagined, because Sam looks so _real_ , and so _kind_ , and so _concerned_ that all Dean wants to do is fall into his brother's arms and apologize a million times over for all the stupid things he's done, and tell him he still needs him. That he still needs his annoying kid sibling. That Sammy means the world to him.

Sammy may mean the world to him, but Castiel controls that world.

If it's a test, all Dean has to do is wait it out.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
When the test lasts for nearly a week, that little voice in the back of Dean's head grows louder and louder until he starts to think that maybe, _maybe_ , this is the chance he's been waiting for, the opening he needs to get the fuck out of dodge.

Illusions were just illusions, right? And even if they could hold him back, he could just jump out the window and deal with broken bones later. He could run, so long as he didn't damage his legs.

Plans began to formulate, circling around his mind and occupying his time because he had nothing else to do. Castiel hasn't shown up for another round of torture in the entire time the illusion had started, and his absence has made Dean grow bold.

He plays along with the game.

The next time Sam asks him if he wants a beer, Dean agrees, even giving a little, "Sure" with the nod of approval. It's the first thing he's said so far that doesn't involve the word "where" or "is" or "Cas".

Sam stops, a look of blatant shock crossing over his features, and for a terrifying moment Dean wonders if he's pushed his luck too far, but he instantly relaxes as soon as a wide, welcome grin spreads across the illusion's features. The look makes Dean's heart clench in his chest.

He may be fake, but _damn_ did he look real.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
It's halfway into the next week and the third time Dean has lost a friendly game of Rock-Paper-Scissors that he realizes, _fuck_ , he's sort of going to miss mirage-Sammy.

Mirage-Sammy is nicer than the reality he's been suffering through for the last God-knows how long, and when the friendly smiles and familial jeers become contagious, when Dean finds himself laughing alongside the grinning face of his fake-brother, he realizes that he needs to get out before he gets too attached.

They've been making progress, he thinks, because now Dean is allowed out of the room, and is given free rein of the house. He snoops through the kitchen at any time of the day, lounges on the couch to watch some mindless TV program with Bobby just about every evening, and ends up talking about endlessly trivial things with Sam every other hour he isn't already occupied.

This replica of his brother is obviously already deeply fond of Dean, and for some unknown reason, it seems to warm Dean's heart. He can't explain it, but he figures it's just another side effect of the mirage.

Still, he sections off the good feelings from his end game, sets aside his devious plans and tucks them away into the corners of his mind while talking with Sam or Bobby.

That night, he knows, he will leave. He figures the house is a model drawn to scale, and the inhabitants are probably figments of his own imagination, so that leaves the mastermind -- Castiel -- off to his own devices.

Dean hasn't felt Cas' eyes on him for a long time now, and he isn't about to let this chance slip through his fingers.

When blue fades to red, and flames shift to midnight seas, when the sun sets and the sky darkens, Dean slips from beneath the covers of his new room (they had moved him into a spare one once his mood had started to improve) and tiptoes out into the hallway.

Sam is sleeping on the couch downstairs, and Bobby is in his own room. There is another room across from Dean's that he hasn't been in yet -- Sam always guides him away when curiosity strikes -- but that he has seen it from the outside of the house. There is a ledge just beneath the window that connects to the roof, and from there he will find his escape.

The door to the room is unlocked, which comes as a bit of a surprise, but Dean remembers something about gift horses and mouths and decides to press on despite the oddity. The inside is pitch black, not even the slant of the moon spilling in through the window to illuminate a path, so Dean creeps in blindly, fumbling around for some purchase on the wall.

A shadow shifts, and something like a breath is heard, and Dean stills so abruptly, he figures if anyone were to turn on the lights right now, they would disregard him as nothing more than a very lifelike statue.

Outside, the wind pushes insistently on a passing cloud, and after a few more moments of blind darkness, the cloud slips on by and the moon is finally given a chance to throw its pale light into the room.

Dean is thankful for the course of about a second, and then he looks to the bed and finds Castiel laying on top of it, on top of the sheets and the covers, and he suddenly curses his terrible luck.

He wants to backtrack, wants to run back to his room with his tail tucked between his legs, but he is suddenly too terrified to move.

If Castiel wakes up, he is _dead_.

... For that matter, why the hell was Cas even _asleep?_ Cas never slept; not even when they had shared a bed together and the angel had taken up residence right beside Dean's shivering, sleepy, frightened form.

It didn't make sense. Sam had mentioned something earlier about Dean getting to see Cas once he 'woke up', but Dean had simply let the comment slide. He'd been ignoring Sam at the time, too, so he supposed it made sense that he hadn't heard all too correctly.

Now, he wished he'd been paying attention.

Once his heart learns how to beat again, blood suddenly comes rushing through his veins like it's some sort of mad dash to the finish line. Dean can barely stand.

Dean can barely stand, but he somehow manages to _run the hell out of there_.

His plan needs a few alterations.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
"So, Sammy, I've been thinking..."

He uses 'Sammy', because he knows it will get him whatever he asks for, and this time he's asking for something bigger than a six pack and a copy of Costa Erotica.

"Yeah?" Sam asks from the other side of the kitchen table, typing away at his laptop, his attention fully focused on something on the screen.

"Remember that crazy sword you were talking about? You know, the one Cas used to kill the Devil?"

He hadn't seen these events occur, but he'd heard about them.

Sam is curious enough to tear his gaze away from his computer to give his brother his full attention.

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering if I could have a look at it."

Sam's forehead crinkles.

"Why?"

"I don't know, just curious. You said it flared up like a flame when Cas was touching it, but now it's like a big hunk of metal. I just want to look."

Sam hesitates, because the feeling that settles in his stomach does not bode well with him.

"Aw, c'mon Sammy. It's not like I'm gonna put my eye out with it."

Dean always gets what he wants when he uses 'Sammy'.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
Dean's plan is simple.

He is going to take that hunk of useless angel metal, find out where the power button is on the damned thing, and _stab Castiel in the chest so many times it looks like Swiss cheese_.

It's his only way out of this hell hole, he thinks, as he takes another giant bite of apple pie and licks the crumbs off of his fingers. He's fiddling with what appears to be a black granite hilt devoid of a blade, turning it this way and that.

Sam watches him wearily.

"You know, I'm sure Cas can show you how it works once he wakes up."

"I'm not a patient man, Sammy."

Sam concedes his point.

When Sam leaves the kitchen to go help Bobby with some mechanical stuff, and when Dean waves off his invitation to come help with a simple, "Be there in a sec," Dean makes a grab for the laptop and sets about researching Enochian phrases. He has no idea where to even begin his research, and ends up staring at the blank internet page for several minutes before typing in 'google' in the URL.

His fingers tap idly at the keys before something productive comes out.

 _how do you say 'on' in enochian?_

43,000 results.

God, Dean loves the internet.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
He's back in the room, but this time it's in the middle of the day, and this time he has a weapon in his hands, and this time Dean has a plan.

Phase One is complete. The huge chunk of useless angel granite is held securely between both his hands.

Phase Two is complete. He now knew the specific Enochian phrase to light that handle up, and turn that useless hunk of granite into sometime fiery and fierce. Sometimes, the simple solutions really were the best.

Phase Three was under way. Swiss cheese. Castiel's chest. Right. Got it.

Except, okay, he's being a pansy, but Cas looks _really peaceful_ when he's unconscious and not digging a knife into Dean's leg, and Dean thinks it's actually sort of hard to swallow the uneasy feeling in his gut and just go ahead and get this over with before his luck runs out and the angel wakes up.

What was that about Lucifer, again?

Oh, right. He'd been possessing Jimmy and torturing Dean, but now that Satan was taking a vacation in the Bahamas -- lucky bastard -- everything was supposed to just go back to normal.

Dean trembles because he can't get anything straight in his head anymore, and he knows he needs to go ahead and do this before he pussies out.

The words are spoken softly, nothing more than a whisper, and then the blade is lifted (goddamned thing is fucking _heavy_ ) and he braces his shoulders to carry the weight of a living flame.

And then the door opens.

"Dean, are you in here? We were ju--"

Sam has amazing reflexes, Dean thinks, because before he can stab the sword into Castiel's throat, and before Sam can even finish his sentence, the younger sibling dives across the room and wrenches the weapon out of Dean's hands, tossing it to the floor with a pained yelp. The flame flickers then sputters into nonexistence.

Dean is wide-eyed and terrified and he thrashes about for a few minutes before falling limply into Sam's steely embrace.

Sam had thought Dean was getting better. He'd obviously been way off base.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
When Castiel wakes up from his unconscious slumber, he is informed that Dean tried to take his life while he was asleep, to which he replies with a simple, "oh."

"That's it?" Sam replies incredulously. "He tries to kill you, and all you've got is _oh?_ "

Castiel looks slightly annoyed.

"He probably assumed I was Lucifer."

To which Sam bitterly laughs.

"No, actually. I'm pretty sure he thinks _you_ were you when _Lucifer_ was you."

This realization comes as a bit of a shock to Cas.

"You informed him of the situation?"

"Twice," Sam replies confidently, crossing his arms.

Castiel is highly disturbed.

"I should speak with him."

Sam, who has been frustrated these past few days with trying to dig Dean out of his shell again, lets out a long sigh and loses the agitation he had been unwittingly directing Castiel's way.

"I don't think that's a good idea right now."

The firm, no-business look on the angel's features prompts Sam to wave his hands about in the air in silent supplication.

"Maybe later," he amends, giving Castiel a sidelong look. "He needs to rest, needs to unwind. He thinks you're going to hurt him, and any kind of comfort you could give is just going to foster this weird Stockholm syndrome he's got going on for you."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Just… wait a few days. See what happens. _He_ might come to _you_ , for all we know."

Castiel nods, but he isn't pleased with the idea of staying away from Dean for any lengthy amount of time.

Immortality has one advantage, though, and that is a superhuman affinity towards patience.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
Ohgod. Ohgodohgod _ohgod_.

The day is beautiful and sunny and bright, with shades of green and swirls of blue; warm weather, soothing breezes, and really it would all be absolutely perfect if Dean hadn't gone and _screwed himself over_ once again.

Everything had been going nicely, he'd thought, until he'd gone and tried to kill Castiel. And that hadn't worked, of course, because his stupid fucking brother had wrenched the stupid fucking angel knife out of his hands right before he could bury the blade in Cas' stupid fucking throat, but what had he really expected? After all, they were all _stupid fucking idiots_ , and the entire scenario was probably just another fabrication Castiel had come up with to torture and test him one more time.

He'd failed the test, and now he is royally fucked.

Castiel has been conscious for the past couple of days, and so his chance at destroying the man who had pretty much destroyed him flew right out the window. Now all Dean can do is pray for mercy -- _ha!_ \-- and hope that he can get to Castiel before Castiel gets to him. He needs to make amends, _quickly_ , before the angel decides to just swoop down and smite his ass.

He gets his chance when Sam and Bobby are in the living room one day, watching a game on the TV, and he slips out to retreat back to what has officially been dubbed His Room. It's really an old office Bobby had once had, that is now suited up with a bed and a dresser and a friendly neighborhood rodent, but sharing a room with a rat isn't all that bad when that room has a _window_.

The outside world is a luxury he thinks he might never get used to again.

Being free to move about an entire house with Castiel flitting in from time-to-time is another luxury that just fucks with his head, it honestly does.

Sam said it was Lucifer who had possessed Jimmy's body, that is was Lucifer who had tortured him, hurt him, abused him, and that the Jimmy Novak he saw now was inhabited by the _real_ Castiel.

Dean didn't have the mental capacity to understand that concept, so the words simply washed over deaf ears.

All he can focus on is _Castiel, Castiel_ , and, _What will please Castiel_ , because for the past few months, pleasing Castiel has literally been his _life_.

And trying to kill the angel probably hadn't been the best course of action towards making him happy.

When Castiel is in a good mood, he tortures Dean.

Dean doesn't even want to think about the horrors awaiting him if Castiel were to ever torture him while in a sour mood.

So he must find Cas first, before Cas has enough time think over his plans of torture and exact them on Dean while Dean is asleep, or alone, or looking the other way for too long. The fact that fake-Sam and fake-Bobby are in the house does nothing to ease his nerves. His mind still tells him that Castiel will hurt him if he doesn't do exactly what is asked of him, and if there are others there to watch, what difference does it make?

When he enters his room and shuts the door behind him, he circles the small, square area once, then clasps his hands together and rocks back on his heels.

"Castiel," he whispers, his voice low and nervous.

Castiel is always there. Castiel is always watching.

Castiel arrives with unsurprising alacrity.

Dean is on the floor in an _instant_. Begging has always tasted like bile in his mouth, but the bitter taste of bile is infinitely better than the metallic taste of blood.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, prostrating himself. He's had to do this many times before. "I'm _so_ sorry."

"Dean," Castiel begins, but Dean doesn't allow him to expound just yet.

He stretches forward, balancing on his hands and knees, then crawls forward on the floor until his fingers can grasp the hem of Castiel's trench coat. The fabric is familiar, a steady roughness caressing the pads of his thumbs, and when Dean edges closer and lays his head against the other's leg, the firm press and warmth of the angel's shin solidifies his actions.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers one more time, then slides his left hand across the floor, over smooth dress shoes, palms flattening along the strings that never have to be tied. His fingernails catch on the top of Castiel's sock, and then slide upwards, beneath the fabric of black slacks, beyond, touching flesh and gliding along warm skin.

When Castiel jerks away, Dean is left to catch himself before his nose collides with the dirty floor. He takes a moment to regain his breath and still his fluttering heart.

 _Ohgod_.

Cas is angry. Cas is angry, and Cas isn't even going to encourage his advances, and Cas is going to fucking _kill him_.

Dean can't stand for this. He doesn't want to be tortured; not after having just gotten better. He doesn't want to hurt anymore, to burn anymore, to bleed anymore.

" _Please,_ " Dean chokes out, and when Castiel doesn't move, he flings himself at the angel and collides with his chest so abruptly, both of them stumble, lose their footing, and go toppling into the bed.

This is how the game is played:

Dean is quick and efficient with his advances, because Castiel has never liked for him to linger too long. Sex is a humiliation, not a gratification, and the angel takes great pleasure in Dean's shame and Dean's shame alone. Carnality, base instincts. They were like animals rutting against the wall, and Dean had been the needy little bitch. By force -- yes. Unwilling -- yes. He'd hated every second of it, and he hates every second of this, here, now. Skin sliding against skin, bodies crashing, clashing, jolting together, forcing friction and heralding heat. Embers in a fire flaring out to burn slick tongues and scald searching fingers. It is a press and a slide, and Dean has never, _ever_ , liked this.

"Cas," he whispers, begging, pleading. "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_."

Hands slide along thin, familiar hips, grip at taunting fabric, press against bones and muscles and flesh. Dean has gotten good at this. Dean has _survived_ by getting good at this.

"Dean," he hears again, but he ignores the sound, ignores Castiel's rough, confused voice, and swings his legs over the angel's hips. His palms are sliding up Cas' shirt, teasing his chest before gliding down, lower, past stomach and naval and belt, beneath the hem of the other's pants and--

The world is swaying faster than Dean can properly perceive, and before he even knows it, his back has collided with the mattress and his legs are trapped beneath Castiel's body.

He breathes hard, forces back the shudder in his stomach and the insatiable urge to retch, and relaxes his muscles until he's laying beneath the angel in a decidedly submissive stance.

This is good. This has happened before. Castiel is taking control, and if Castiel decides not to hurt him, then the inevitable torture will be staved off for at least another day.

Dean has closed his eyes in the meantime, but when several seconds bleed into several minutes, and still nothing happens, he can't help but crack open an eye and peer at the immobile figure above him.

Castiel doesn't look like the same Castiel he's used to.

There is no cruelty or heated desire for power in his eyes. There is no insistent press against his body, or vindictive bite to his jugular just to make him question whether or not his throat will remain intact. There is no hatred, no hollowness.

Instead remains a man of contradictions. His grip on Dean's arms is solid and unmoving, and the look in his eyes is firm, broaching no room for argument. But his lips are tugged down in consternation, and his throat is swallowing thickly as if he's having trouble breathing, and Dean gets the distinct impression that the body above him, though solid and concrete, is also trembling and nervous and thrown completely off balance.

Dean doesn't understand. He leans his head back and bares his throat in a submissive gesture, and he thinks he hears something of a soft, pained growl above him, but he can't be entirely sure because he is too focused on what he can do to make Castiel happy. He digs his feet into the mattress and rolls his hips upward insistently, and he sees something flare in Castiel's eyes that makes him think, _Alright, time to get down to business_ , but half a second later the angel tears his gaze away from Dean's lips and catapults himself off of the bed in one fluid motion.

Flustered, the older Winchester props himself up on his elbows and stares after the angel's retreating back, way too confused to fit together the proper pieces in his mind. What was going on? Castiel wasn't lashing out with violence at all, and his lack of hatred was really starting to unnerve Dean.

Before he can think further on the subject, he hears a gruff, "Dean," from the other side of the room, and before he can even reply, Castiel spreads his ethereal wings and disappears.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
Castiel feels the bite of wind, the slide of air cutting through his clothing and chilling the body beneath. He shivers, and he isn't cold. There is something in the distance, something that smells distinctly like ozone and tastes like lighting, something that weaves around his presence like a thought, that cozies up to his frame and coils wicked tendrils around his body. It comes with a heat, and it oozes into a chill, and the ice of it burns because the sound of it aches. Heaven drips from the sky this high up; he is on a mountain, and he is closer to God, and his fingers are stretched upward to touch the edge of space and time with the tips of his fingernails.

It strikes him suddenly that he's in love with Dean Winchester.

His palms raise upward in supplication, letting sunlight spill onto his skin.

Devotion, loyalty, these traits he has seemingly always felt towards Dean. His curiosity towards the human had sparked dissension amongst those of his garrison, and Castiel had been demoted to a level below Uriel, told he was to bow his head and submit to the other's orders, even though Castiel had proven, had _proven_ , that he was the better warrior.

Something wet and slick curls in the wind, brushes along the angel's cheek, ruffles intangible feathers.

Castiel has always loved God's creation. He has hated to see it suffer, and he has fought to see it rectified, and he has loved, loved, he has _loved_ each and every child God has called His own. He has battled for Dean, and he has sacrificed for Dean, and he has _trapped the Devil_ for Dean, and it is now, here, with an infinite drop-off yawning two inches from the toes of his shoes, with the endless sky curving like a painting just above his head, with his arms stretched out before him and a whisper dancing on his lips, it is _here_ that he realizes he doesn't just love Dean. He is _in_ love with Dean.

The distinction is alarming.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
"We need to talk."

Dean chokes on the burger he had been happily munching away at, dies a little bit, but recovers rapidly because _holy shit_ Castiel is in his bedroom and Castiel is _going to fucking kill him_ , and that is definitely something Dean wants to be alive for.

He splutters, drops the food, then shies away to the corner of his bed and throws a longing glance towards the door. He's screwed. There is an angel in his room that wants to 'talk', and he's pretty sure Sam and Bobby are outside somewhere, and he is _totally fucking screwed_.

"Cas," Dean says breathlessly, the single syllable difficult for him to pronounce. He feels as if he's ran a hundred miles; he feels as if a truck has slammed into his chest and has decided to back up and crush his legs; he feels as if no allegory can appropriately describe just how shitty he feels.

When Castiel takes a step forward, Dean jerks back so suddenly his head collides with the headboard and the sharp, resounding _crack_ makes both of them stop.

Cas clenches his fists. Dean notices immediately, and his heart falls.

"Dean, I am not the person who tortured you."

Dean blinks. The words literally wash right over his head.

"I'm sorry," the Winchester blurts out suddenly. "I'm _so_ sorry, Cas. What can I do to make it up to you?" His eyes fall to Castiel's hands, to the barely contained wrath held therein. "Please."

"Dean." And suddenly something in Castiel's voice sounds so _hurt_ , it completely throws Dean for a loop. The angel's fingers stretch out, wriggle towards the ground as if compelled by Earth's gravitational pull, and in a breath he is striding across the room, ignoring Dean's horror, ignoring the terror he feels coming off of the human in waves, ignoring it _all_ just so he can stand beside Dean's bed and be a little closer than before.

"Dean," he says again, insistently. "I am _not_ the one who tortured you."

"Anything," Dean continues. "I'll do anything. Please, just-- _please_."

Castiel repeats himself.

"I did not torture you."

"Please, Cas. I—I don't know what you want."

"I _didn't_ torture you, Dean."

"I'm sorry. It was stupid of me to try and hurt you, because that's _your_ job, and, and I'm just—I'm _sorry_."

There is a hand on Dean's arm suddenly, scorching through the fabric, slotting perfectly into place with the matching scar on his shoulder, and Dean utters barely a protest as he is manhandled forward, upward, out of the bed and onto his feet and into a very persistent angel's arms.

Lips collide with tongue and teeth, and Castiel growls -- fucking _growls_ \-- into the kiss, and everything is so hot, so inflamed, so _now now now_ and _more more more_ , that even though the only movement is the play between their tongues, even though Cas' hands are rough and solid and unmoving, and all Dean can do to hold himself upright is clench trembling fists into the fabric of Jimmy's shirt, there is something undeniably _powerful_ about the violence and ache and need behind their kiss.

Dean breaks away for breath, a heartbeat ticks between them, and Castiel is on him again, one hand grappling for purchase on the human's arm, the other sliding up to hold his head in place. Fingers twirl and deviate from their original intent, caressing the nape of Dean's neck, adding mewling pleasure to the tidal wave of possession that engulfs him from the effort of their conjoined lips.

When they finish, Castiel doesn't move and Dean can hardly breathe. The angel's cheek is pressed innocently against Dean's mouth, and he moves his head to rumble something soft and sweet and _Enochian_ into the human's ear.

Dean relaxes entirely, his body falling flush against Castiel's, and after a few minutes he realizes, _oh my god_ , this isn't the Castiel that tortured him.

Because this? This is the first time Dean has kissed _any_ version of Cas, and he can taste it in his breath and feel it in the slick slide of his tongue that the angel now holding him upright is a far cry from the angel that had kept him in a bunker for God-knows how long.

Everything slots into place in his mind, as if all the wrinkles of his fucked up head have been smoothed out by some crazy angel-kissing mojo.

"Oh my god," Dean says softly, gripping his angel tight.

Castiel cants his head to the side and does nothing but hold him tighter.  
   
   
   



	6. Luminous [Epilogue]

  
   
When the tentative subject of Jimmy Novak's previously Satan-possessed body finally clicks inside Dean's mind, he seeks Castiel out to ask questions he's already been told the answers to. Twice.

He needs to hear it again.

"So you spoke to God?"

"Yes."

"And you just, what, asked Him for a temporary body?"

"Yes."

"... And He went for that?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

Castiel tips his head to the side.

"You seem confused."

"No, yeah, it's just. It's _God_ , you know?"

"I do know."

"Huh."

The next time is a few days later, when curiosity sets in.

"So how come I could hold your angel sword thing, but it nearly burned the skin off of Sam?"

"You spoke the incantation, so it registered with your spirit."

"Oh."

That was most certainly an 'angels are weird' _oh_.

And then another day.

"So why didn't Lucifer kidnap Sammy when he had the chance?"

Sam had told him about the two-month-long gap in his memory, and quite frankly, it had terrified Dean.

"He still needed Sam to say yes. Without compliance, Lucifer could not enter his vessel."

Which broached the question, "Then how did he get a hold of you?"

Castiel had canted his head to the side, contemplated this, then answered, "Jimmy had already agreed to become a vessel. Lucifer must have found a loophole as to _whose_ vessel he became."

Angels. They were like lawyers. With enough legal bullshit, they could do just about anything.

It wasn't until a few days later, after Dean's sanity had come washing back with startling rapidity, that he asked the most important question of all.

"So, uh. Why did you kiss me?"

He had been waiting all day to catch Castiel alone and ask him this. Sam and Bobby were in the kitchen, gathering up some chips and stock piling the beer for a game on TV they were all about to watch, and Dean and Castiel were sitting on opposite sides of the couch in the living room. Castiel, stiff-backed and uncomfortable, his hands folded over his lap as he stared bemusedly at the little box with images playing across its screen, had turned his head and watched Dean with a look just barely brimming with warmth.

If Dean hadn't spent the past month or so studying Castiel's features for any tick of expression to hint at his mood, Dean would have never caught the look.

"I don't know," Castiel had answered truthfully, and then Bobby had rolled in and the conversation had been dropped.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
He thinks it's sort of unusual, but not entirely unpleasant, when Castiel starts touching him more. It isn't anything big at first -- a slide of their shoulders when the angel walks past, a brush of fingers when Cas passes him a beer -- but like all things in Dean Winchester's life, things start to Progressively Get Worse.

Or maybe better. At this point, he honestly can't tell the difference.

He's talking to Sam when it happens. Half-drained bottle in one hand, the glass rim tipped against his lips, Sam yammering on about something or other, about a monster and all the research he's done about it, both brothers standing in the kitchen, Castiel standing right beside Dean (maybe a little _too_ close, but he's gotten used to that by now, and he doesn't really mind), when the angel reaches over with his right hand and grips Dean's free hand in his own.

Dean sucks in a breath and little drops of alcohol stick to his lungs, making him cough loudly. Sam, for his part, chokes on air for about three seconds before he presses onward with his conversation, studiously ignoring the hand-holding going on between his brother and the angel. Castiel stares ahead as if intertwining his fingers with Dean's is a normal, everyday activity.

It gets worse.

Bobby, Dean, and Sam are all sitting around the living room one day, watching _The Boondock Saints_ (It's a Winchester favorite; bloodshed for Dean, heavenly quest for Sam.) when Castiel angel's himself into the room. Which isn't a big surprise, because Bobby notices first and says something like, "Take a seat, we're just getting to the good part," and Dean seconds that notion by scooting over to the far side of the couch to make room. His eyes are still glued to the TV screen, and Sam's sitting on the exact opposite side, just as enraptured, when Castiel settles down between them with a sort of awkward flourish. All is going well until, near the end, just when they're getting to the climax, Dean nearly jumps out of his own skin because a warm, lanky arm settles across his shoulders and tugs him insistently towards an equally warm side.

Dean peers to his right, stares at Castiel's profile, but the angel is studying the movie like the blueprints of a battle plan.

"Why is that man dressed like a woman?" Cas asks, and Dean swallows thickly, forcing his attention back towards the movie.

"Because he's gay," Dean replies, and even though Dean knows it's not _really_ the answer, it's all he can think of with Castiel's arm laying across his shoulders and Castiel's trench coat pressing into his side.

No one else in the room notices the both of them until Sam gets up to go grab a drink from the fridge, and even then nothing is said.

Another instance takes the cake.

When Dean and Sam get back from a hunt all bloodied and bruised, and Cas shows up to dab at Dean's forehead wounds with a wet washcloth, Sam still in the room, something must be said.

"Okay, dude. You're probably just being nice and all, but seriously. What the hell?"

He pushes Castiel's hand out of the way, and the angel squints his eyes and stares at him as if he's grown another head.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

Dean blanches, splutters, mumbles something incoherent, then points an accusing finger at the man standing barely four inches away from him.

"What's with all this touchy-feely crap lately?"

Castiel blinks.

"I thought you liked it."

Dean chokes on air while Sam tries valiantly not to point and laugh.

"That's-- _no!_ That's beside the point!"

"So you _don't_ like it?"

The angel seems a little put-off.

"Yes! I mean-- _No_ , I didn't say-- _dammit_ , Cas, what are you getting at here?"

His accusatory finger is enveloped in the press and pull of two warm palms. Fingers twine together, threads spooling, unraveling, twisting around each other, all pleasant and comforting and so fucking _angelic_ it hurts Dean's heart a little.

Sam starts to feel a little uncomfortable when Castiel pulls Dean closer.

"Yeah, uh. I'm just, uh, gonna…"

The angel dips his head forward, lays his forehead gently against Dean's, and Sam bolts from the room without another word.

Weird just got a helluva lot weirder.

"Jesus, Cas! Seriously, what's your prob—"

"Dean." He says the name in the same tone of voice he might say 'shut up'.

Dean trembles and his lips clamp shut almost as tightly as his eyes.

 _This is Cas, this is Cas._ He has to scream it in his head.

One hand unravels from his own, and it is the press of two smooth fingers against the back of his neck that finally calms him down.

"Why?" is all Dean can mumble, his lips centimeters away from Castiel's mouth. He can feel the other's breath washing over them, drying them, some weird sort of energy buzzing between them that has Dean thinking, _Fuck, just kiss me already. Just kiss me. Just--_

"Dean."

Low, gravely. Dark, possessive. Protective, warm, gentle, calm, unhinged. He can hear it all in that single syllable.

The fingers at his neck slide upward, around, until they are laying along Dean's temple.

"Your mind knows I am me," Castiel says. His fingers glide down, across Dean's neck, over his clavicle, until he can rest his palm on the hunter's quivering shoulder. "But your body still doesn't believe."

Dean shudders as if to prove his point.

"Cas?" Breathlessly.

"Yes?" A whisper.

"Stop trying to make this sound like a bad porno."  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
Castiel is right, of course. Dean is having a hard time shaking off the mild case of Stockholm syndrome he seems to have contracted towards the angel, but at the same time his entire countenance is still terrified of Cas.

His mind is fine (for the most part).

His body shakes and shies away with each breath or hint of Castiel. Kinetic memory, they called it. He might be able to repress the memories, but his body is still acutely aware of every cut and every ache.

Castiel noticed the signs before anyone else. Dean would twitch when he appeared in the room. Dean would give curt answers or ignore him when spoken to, and then get as far away as was reasonably possible in as little amount of time as was humanly reasonable. Dean would slink back, or tremble, or get this look on his face that one might get right before retching, and no one except Castiel had really noticed because no one else was looking.

Castiel, fortunately, has a solution.

If Dean's body has been trained to fear him, the angel will simply _re_ -train his body _not_ to fear him.

The use of constant pleasant physical contact is the means to reach this particular end.

When he informs Dean of his plan, however, the human is far from pleased.

"This isn't a plan. This is _ridiculous_."

"It will work."

"You know what I think? I think you're trying to take advantage of me."

When Castiel doesn't answer, Dean peers in his direction and groans when he sees that tiny half-smile on his lips that means the angel is definitely up to something.

"It will work," Cas says again, then grips Dean's hand in his own and walks them both out of the room.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
"So you two are dating now?"

"No, we're—"

"Yes, we are," Cas interrupts, giving Dean's hand a firm squeeze.

Sam is sitting in a chair across from the couple. They're all still at Bobby's house, and over time, after the end of The End, and with nothing much else to do except hunt down horrific bitches and bring home the bacon ( _al la_ credit card fraud), they've come to call the junkyard their home.

Dean buries his head in Castiel's shoulder in shame, because, really, who can blame him? Dean Winchester, woman's man, is dating a _guy_. Dean Winchester, hunter of all things paranormal, is dating an _angel_. He feels like withering up then and there, but Castiel tips his head and plants a soft kiss on the top of Dean's head in reassurance, and now Dean has to deal with the pretty color of rogue staining his cheeks, his brother's soft snort of amusement, and the intense, heated feeling that bubbles in his chest and makes him want to wrap his arms around Castiel's waist and hold him close.

He settles for a groan, and a muted, "Dammit, Cas. Not in front of Sam."

Sam finds all of this to be a little surreal, but he thinks, well, if an angel's got his sights set on Dean, at least he won't have to worry about covering his brother's back every waking moment of every day.

Dean does a lot of stupid things to get himself in trouble. It just figures that it would take a warrior of God perched on his shoulder to get him out of it.

So the thought of Dean dating an angel is a comfort.

A little creepy, and something Sam will hold over Dean's head for the rest of eternity, but a comfort nonetheless.

"So the infamous lady's man, Dean Winchester, is finally tied down, huh?"

"Shut up Sammy." Dean's face is still buried in Castiel's shoulder.

"To a guy."

"I swear, I'm gonna--"

"An angel guy."

"--kill you."

"Sam?" Castiel interrupts, his eyes shifting from Dean to the other hunter in the room.

"Yeah?" Sam asks, turning his attention towards the angel.

"I gripped him tight and raised him from perdition," Cas says, as if explaining something very important to Sam.

"... Yeah?" Sam knows there has to be a point here; he just knows it.

Castiel's expression turns stony, his eyes flat and determined.

"And I can throw _you_ in."

Sam swallows.

"Okay."

Dean snorts as he wraps his arms around Castiel's waist and holds him close.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
Dean is a pretty heavy sleeper, all things considered. Sure, give him a knife or a gun and he can shiv a ghost or a monster or a demon into the afterlife without a care. Give him a mission or a goal, and he can stay awake for days on end just to accomplish what he had set out to do. But once he's out, he's _out_. He's slept through thunderstorms, slept through earthquakes, slept through Sam's _snoring_.

All of these things, however, do not match up to the heated press of an angel's chest biologically melding with his back.

It wasn't that it was uncomfortable -- oh, quite the contrary -- but there had been too many days when Lucy-Cas had done the same thing; had held Dean in his arms and shushed him quietly while Dean had tried his damndest to get some rest, all the while fearful that the angel would shove a blade into his trachea just for kicks.

Considering the fact that Lucifer in Jimmy's body and Cas in Jimmy's body had still both _been in Jimmy's body_ , Dean couldn't really blame himself for shivering just that last little bit when Castiel had decided to cozy on up to him one evening when everyone had retired to their own rooms for a good night's rest.

"You're nervous," Castiel says against the back of his neck.

"We're _spooning_ ," Dean replies.

"You need to relax."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I've never slept with another guy before!" Dean blurts out, then suddenly wishes words weren't like toothpaste, and thinks it might be worth trying to cram that stupid, _stupid_ goo right back into the tube if it would somehow distract him from the awkwardness that settled into his chest at that very moment. Sure, he'd slept with Cas before, but that situation had been extenuating. It wasn't the same, and he knew it. His body still fosters that steady fear exposed physical contact with the angel gives him, and at the same time his mind is yelling at him for participating in an action he otherwise would never have done.

Dean's having problems.

He's so attached and so dependent on Castiel, it fucking hurts.

He's so afraid and physically nervous of Castiel, it unhinges him.

And he has never, ever, _ever_ done this sort of thing with another guy before. Ever.

Castiel shifts behind him, his chest sliding against Dean's back, and Dean thinks it is so fucking _wrong_ that something that simple can be so arousing. He's so enraptured with having a little chit-chat with the boys down South that he barely notices the pair of soft, insistent lips that press along that nape of his neck.

"I'm not going to do anything," the angel reassures.

"Right," Dean bites back sarcastically, but the words are a comfort.

"We will simply go to sleep."

" _I'll_ go to sleep," Dean clarifies. "You're going to stay up all night being a creeper."

Castiel smiles against his neck, and suddenly Dean has gone all warm and fuzzy and _female_.

And suddenly Dean doesn't particularly mind.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

   
   
It strikes Dean unexpectedly, quicker than a heartbeat, in the most inopportune of places, that he really, _really_ wants to fuck Cas. He's standing in line at the local White Castle with Sam in tow, debating the best way to off a wraith in one of their more fervent conversations (hand gestures and all), when he glances to the side and sees Castiel sliding into a ratty old booth, and he thinks, _Holy fucking shit, I'd tap that._

He has to perpetually remind himself that it's inappropriate to pop a boner in front of his brother when Sammy was giving a detailed discourse on how to gut a creepy wraith fucker. It is the constant mantra of _Bobby in a speedo, Bobby in a speedo, Bobby in a speedo_ that keeps him from having to explain this embarrassing realization to his little brother.

He would need therapy after this.

The brothers join Castiel at the booth, Sam sitting opposite both Dean and his angel boyfriend, and happily munch away at their dinners. Dean is only half-aware of the one-sided sexually charged situation he's dug himself into, but the distraction of food is a hearty diversion. He listens to Sam talk, listens to the steady inhale and exhale coming from between Castiel's lips, and everything is soon pushed back to the very fringe of his mind.

Until later that night.

Sam is up late watching porn doing research, and Bobby ( _Speedo_ is the first thing that comes to mind, and, _dammit_ , that is going to take a while to wash out of his brain.) is in the kitchen re-arranging his bourbon. Dean decides to retire to bed early, because he's worn out from the day, and is feeling a little tired, and-- okay, _okay_ , he very well _may_ be a little anxious to slip beneath the bedsheets with Cas, but it's not his fault the angel is damned comfy. He'd gotten used to the steady warmth pressing against his back each night, to a point where it had become more than a comfort; it had become a pleasure. The second Castiel's arm wraps around his waist, however, an unsettling heat pools in the middle of Dean's stomach and only seems to sink lower with every exhale of breath that flutters across his neck.

He turns his face, if but slightly, and mumbles something into the side of Castiel's arm that the angel of course catches.

"Hm?" Castiel intones, his nose resting in the little arch that connects collar to shoulder blade.

"Nothing," Dean gruffs out, and then nearly dies when the pad of Cas' thumb starts to rub slow circles in the fabric of his shirt, just above his naval. His face goes bright red, and Cas can feel the heat of it against his arm.

"What's wrong?" he asks, sliding closer, his entire body molded to Dean's form, and Dean is having a hard time not thinking about all the terribly, _terribly_ dirty things he could do with Cas. His body doesn't agree, however, and the heat only seems to grow.

"Cas, you need to back off for a minute here," he says desperately. He doesn't want to have to deal with this. With Lucy-Cas, at least all forms of sexual stimulation had been one-sided and used as a means of torture. With real-Cas, he actually downright had the hots for the angel, which was somehow infinitely worse.

Castiel seems confused by this sudden biting nature, but instead of heeding Dean's command, only asks, "Why?"

Ohgod, was he going to have to give an angel The Talk?

He starts out awkwardly.

"Uh, Cas. I'm a guy. And guys have certain, uh, _needs_..."

Castiel's stare is blank and absolutely unhelpful.

"And so you clinging to my back isn't really helping me out here--"

"Why repress them?"

Dean coughs.

"What?"

Castiel leans in closer, butts his forehead against the hunter's back, then slides his palm up until it's resting in the middle of the other's chest.

"Why repress your needs?"

If Dean didn't know any better -- and at this point, he really doesn't fucking _know_ if he knows any better -- he would have said Castiel was trying to seduce him. Which, okay, his mind was half on the fritz just from blatant horny desire, and with this little image planted firmly in his mind, he really couldn't help but tip over the edge.

"Cas," he mumbles softly when the angel shifts behind him.

Castiel replies with a gesture. He curls his fingers along the edge of Dean's shirt, along the very hem of it, just above his waistline, and caresses the fabric with deft clarity; slowly, methodically, as if Dean was some fascinating treasure and he had all the time in the world to explore it. There is something achy behind his breath, something soothing and unreasonably arousing in the way he whispers sweet prayers in an angelic tongue just beside Dean's ear.

The bed is suddenly too large, too vast, too gaping. The only pinprick of comfort is the warmth drawn from Castiel's chest, the tangle of the sheets between both their legs. The trench coat is no longer an endearing protective layer between Dean and homoerotic activity; it is a hindrance, and he wants it _gone_.

He shifts around in bed. The mattress creaks slightly. He faces Castiel, thinking he could best persuade the angel to take off the damned outer layers of clothing if he spoke to him eye-to-eye. He's wrong -- terribly, terribly wrong -- and instead is taken aback, utterly breathless, by the adoration he is suddenly faced with. Those unreasonably blue eyes aren't confused, or cold, or cruel, or innocent, or naïve. They are dark, passionate, all kinds of warm, nothing but a swirl of blue and hope and kindness, and it's this look that arouses Dean more than he would ever like to admit. His heart swells, his chest aching, and in the same token all he wants to do is claw away the layers of clothing separating their bodies and grind Castiel as close to his marrow as he could possibly manage.

It hits him like a freight train, and before he knows it, his hands are on the angel's shoulders, pushing the trench coat out of the way, sliding up the buttons of his suit jacket, touching, tugging, pulling the undershirt out from where it was tucked in the same old black slacks.

"Dean," Castiel says quietly, and that low, gravelly voice, that _growl_ , makes a shudder race down his spine.

He doesn't stop. He pushes forward, grumbles when he realizes he can't get the layers off by himself.

"Help me out here," he bites out, eyes scanning the span of Castiel's clavicle, staring at his throat, his gaze purely ravenous.

The angel doesn't do anything for a very long moment, long enough for Dean to second-guess his actions, but the second the hunter decides this might not be such a good idea, Castiel shrugs out of his trench coat and suit jacket, and tosses both of them onto the floor beside the bed.

The tie remains, and Dean thinks it's actually kind of funny that Cas wouldn't think to remove it.

Dean swoops in like a predator hunting its prey, but the second his fingers dip below the waistband of Castiel's pants, the angel grips Dean's wrists in his own hands and flips their positions so suddenly, Dean is left reeling from the momentum of it all.

A body is laying against him, warm and hard and _oh my god_ he's fucking aroused, and that is way more sexy to Dean than it ever should be. He struggles beneath Castiel for a moment, because all he can think is, _Touch, touch. I want to touch_ , but Castiel's grip is firm and unmoving, and eventually Dean is silenced with a kiss.

"Do you trust me?" Cas mumbles against his lips when he pulls away, and Dean is having a very hard time not agreeing to everything Castiel is saying.

 _Mental note to self: Don't let Cas kiss you during an argument._

"Yes," Dean says, then wriggles beneath him. He's so hot he's starting to get itchy, and that is just uncomfortable.

"Say it, Dean."

It felt like ice washing over him, because this reminded him way too much of many of the torture sessions he'd had with Lucifer. It took more than a few seconds for him to still his rapidly beating heart and shake away the shivers that accompanied those words.

Could he let himself go again?

What if this wasn't the real Cas at all?

What if Lucifer was playing another game, only this one had lasted longer?

Could Dean really claw himself back out of the depths of his insanity once again if that were the case?

Dean closes his eyes and lays his head down. He pants beneath Castiel, lets out a long, low sigh.

"Yes," he says, the words heavy and tentative and true. "I trust you, Cas."

That is all the permission Castiel needs.

He swoops down and captures Dean's lips in his own, something deep and possessive rumbling in his chest and curling out between their tongues. Dean rolls his hips upward, presses and grinds, aching and wanting and _needing_ more. But Castiel is soft; he is gentle and slow and exploratory. His hands dip beneath the fabric of Dean's shirt. They grip at flesh and flutter along previously broken ribs. They dip beneath their bodies, slide between mattress and heated skin, and palm against each vertebrae. Fingers touching, pressing, caressing, sliding lower, making Dean shudder and writhe in a manner he's definitely not used to.

"Hurry," Dean says, his voice low and ragged. It hurts to breathe.

"Patience," Castiel replies, and then he's on the move again, tugging Dean's shirt up, over his head, slotting his arms through the sleeves and tossing the useless fabric onto the floor beside his own layers of clothing.

Dean rips and tears at the buttons of Castiel's shirt, not caring when he gets too rough, when the material rips, because Castiel has magical darning skills, and right now it just _doesn't fucking matter_.

When he goes for the angel's pants, Castiel stills him.

"No," he says quietly, firmly.

Dean ignores him; reaches and grabs with a fervor nigh insatiable.

" _No_ ," Cas says again, then grabs both of Dean's hands and raises them above the hunter. Trembling knuckles just barely graze the wall, and with a little maneuvering around, Castiel secures both wrists in one of his hands and he uses the other to continue his previous exploration.

Dean struggles lightly at first, and then more valiantly when he realizes that the strength of an angel is pinning him down with barely a thought, making him completely immobile, completely helpless.

Completely vulnerable.

"Cas," Dean says when the angel's lips start to do a little of exploring of their own. " _Cas_."

He's panicking and he knows it, but _goddamnit_ , he can't help it.

Castiel doesn't stop, and Dean starts to breathe so heavily he's practically hyperventilating. It's when his legs start to kick out and his quiet hesitation turns to an outright physical struggle that the angel pauses his ministrations to peer up at Dean.

"You said you trusted me," he says flatly, and Dean cringes at the look thrown his way.

"I do! It's just—"

Cas leans forward, his body arching in a manner that has Dean aroused all over again, and presses his lips gently against the human's mouth. It's sweet, somehow, more than gentle, and it's like Cas is exuding his grace into that simple touch because a sudden peace simply washes over Dean and makes his body relax.

"Then trust me," Cas says when he pulls back again.

Dean swallows thickly, then nods and lays back down. Castiel slides down his body a little bit and continues to mouth the hunter's throat.

Everything builds to a clash and a crescendo much more quickly than Dean would have thought. Castiel isn't human, and though it's sometimes easy to think that he's a naïve little puppy when it comes to all human customs, the truth of the matter was quite the opposite. Pop culture may not have been one of the angel's strong points, but all it took was base instinct to get sex down, and, well. Castiel had plenty of base instinct to spread around.

He was like an animal. Feral and crouching and crawling and so fucking _beautiful_ Dean could hardly stand it. He listened to Dean's body, listened to the mumbles of pleasure, the shifts and aches of discomfort. His entire attention was focused on the heat, on the arousal, on what would make _Dean_ feel good, on what would please _Dean_ , how to wring another satisfied gasp from between the human's lips, how to take him to the edge and pull him right back.

It all goes much too slowly for Dean's tastes.

"Cas, _please_ ," he whispers after a while, still on his back, but now his hands are free and he's pulling the angel closer to him.

"Patience, Dean."

Castiel could take his fucking patience and shove it up his ass.

"Cas, if you don't do something _right now_ \--"

The angel moves, and suddenly Dean is gripping him and arching beneath him and begging for more even while cringing from the pain. Castiel rolls his hips forward, pulls them back, the motion slow, steady, and it's literally driving Dean absolutely crazy. He starts to buck his hips, to try and bring the other closer, but it's to no avail.

" _Goddamnit_ , Cas! Go faster!"

Castiel nips the bottom of Dean's jaw and mumbles a quiet, "Don't blaspheme," against the other's skin before pulling back and pushing in again. His pace doesn't change.

Dean grows more and more frustrated by the minute. He's used to quick and dirty, hit and run, fast-paced sex that leaves the participants out of breath and begging for more. At this point, the build-up in Dean has gotten so desperate, his entire epidermis is buzzing with arousal, and even just the act of Castiel leaning down to plant gentle kisses along his chest is enough to drive him absolutely insane.

" _Please_ ," he says, then slams his head back against the pillows on the bed and moans when Castiel hits something inside of him that is _way too fucking good to be true_.

"I don't want to hurt you," Castiel says roughly, still moving at that steady pace, driving forward, pulling back.

Dean is angry, and hot, and sweaty, and upset, and he practically yells, "What if I _want_ it to fucking hurt!?"

The angel stills altogether at that. All movement stops, and suddenly two lucid, bright blue eyes are piercing into Dean's skull and picking apart the thoughts held therein. Dean gulps, turns his head to the side, and inadvertently bares his neck. Castiel sees this and swoops down, his teeth scraping slowly along the other's jugular, lips massaging the agitated skin, before he raises up and settles his mouth against Dean's ear.

"You don't always _get_ what you want," he growls heatedly, breath washing along the fine hairs curled around Dean's ear, and _holyshit_ Dean could fucking come right there just from the sound of his voice.

He arches into Castiel's touch, whimpers (God, yes, it's fucking female. _Shut the fuck up_.) with need, and when he _is_ allowed release, when Castiel pushes him over the edge, it is with a nudge, with a whispered word, with something Enochian mumbled against his skin; it is a thread unraveled, the embers of a fire dying out slowly, and it happens _hard_ and _hot_ with a tenderness that leaves Dean aching long after he comes down off of his physical high.

It's in the aftermath, when they're lying together in each other's arms, that Dean comes to a startling realization.

"Cas?"

"Mm?" the angel replies lazily.

"I really do trust you."

Castiel smiles at how similar the word 'trust' sounds to 'love'.  
   
   


 **~*~*~*~**

  


**Touched By An Angel**

BY BECKY ROSEN

 _Castiel shivered as he leaned against the splintered wooden wall of the barn. Just outside, the rain was coming down in torrents. Sam and the angel were trapped inside by the storm raging across the land, but neither of them minded._

"Sam, we shouldn't," Castiel whispered when Sam stepped closer and laid a hand on his chest. His hands were big and warm, but they still made Cas tremble. Goosebumps rose on his arms, and he leaned further back against the worn wall with sudden hesitancy.

"Why not?" Sam asked, leaning in. His body acted as a barrier between Castiel and freedom, and the rain made his shirt cling to his muscular frame. Castiel couldn't help but stare at the big hunk of Winchester in front of him.

"This is wrong," the angel said, then swallowed thickly.

Sam stared at Castiel's throat, overcome by a swell of insatiable hunger, then swooped in and trailed a line of kisses down the other's neck.

"Then I don't want to be right."

"What are you reading?" Dean asks when he stumbles into the kitchen and finds Castiel clicking away at the computer. He searches around for the coffee pot for a moment before spotting a cup of freshly brewed coffee sitting on the counter beside the microwave.

There are certain perks to being an angel's boyfriend, he thinks, then grabs the cup and takes a sip, leaning against the counter to watch Cas.

The angel looks confused for a moment, his gaze roving across the screen, before he clicks off of the page and closes the laptop.

"Something indecent," he answers truthfully, blinking slowly.

Dean grins like the fucking Cheshire Cat, sets down his coffee, then sidles up close to Castiel and drapes himself over the angel from behind.

"Why read about something indecent when you can _do_ something indecent instead?"

Castiel thinks he rather likes this idea.  


 **~*~*~*~  
THE END  
~*~*~*~**

   
   
   


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Supernatural | Luminous [vid]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233874) by [meivocis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meivocis/pseuds/meivocis)




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